Walk Beside Me
by Louder Than Words 354
Summary: Mark has vanished into the underworld of D.C., and he is running out of time. Roger will do anything to get his best friend back. Mark and Roger friendship. Sequel to "Break With Tears". M for thematic elements.
1. Prologue

**There was a wee bit of confusion on our end! We meant to post this prologue before chapter one! Sorry! I hope that there's no confusion! And I hope that you can all enjoy this prologue!! And we'll put up chapter two soonest! **

Prologue

Three months after Mark's departure

_God, it hurts to open my eyes. The pain starts in the back of my head and creeps forward. I don't know how it got there, the pain. I don't know where I am. For a minute, I don't know who I am. I just know that it hurts. I know that there's darkness. _

_I finally force them open. A shadow speckled with filtered light swims in my vision, pulsating, sending waves of distortion through my mind. Eventually, I make out small windows and boxes outlined by thin gray highlights. I guess it's a basement or a storeroom—dark and suffocating. _

_By now, my other senses have kicked in, even though they're secondary to the headache and the stifling pain in my ribs and limbs. I realize that I can't feel my hands. They're bound behind my back, and a tight, chafing sensation extends upwards from my wrists. My fingers are numb. I'm tied to a chair. _

_There's no air. I fight to draw breath, only to hear the harsh sound of a deep, rattling cough coming up through my chest. The acrid taste of blood fills my mouth. It smells like alcohol; alcohol and weed, mixed in with some unknown filth and decay. _

_Where the hell am I? _

_The ironic answer comes back to me: I'm in hell. _

_I try to focus, try to remember. I see abstract faces solidify into snatches of memory and try to put names to what I see. New York City. Washington. Life Café. Scarsdale. Mom. Cindy. Dad. Roger Davis, Maureen Johnson, Mark Cohen…_

_There. That's me, Mark Cohen. I've got it now, and the memories come back in a fast flood that makes the pounding pain fiercer. But I still don't remember how I got here—none of the memories tell me that. None of them correct the distortion and give _this _place a name. _

_In the middle of everything, a simple, idiotic question surfaces: Where's my camera? _

_A silhouette stirs. At first, it scares the shit out of me. The thin, dark figure pulls forward out of the boxes, and slanting sunlight illuminates half a dirty face, a single dark eye. _

_I test my voice. The first thing to come is a groan. I want to ask for help, but the man approaching me doesn't look like he has help in mind. _

"_Shit…" I mutter, my first commentary on the pain. "Where am I?" _

* * *

"_Hey, Mat," says an unwelcome voice. "Fucker's awake." _

_A distant, seated shadow murmurs in response. _

_The first man closes in, walking quickly, breathing smoke into my face. "So. I've got one question for you." _

_I try to focus. It doesn't work. Suddenly, I realize why: my glasses are gone. Everything is fuzzy and out of whack, and it's not just because of the pain._

_His left hand flies up. I flinch, for all the good it would've done if he'd decided to hit me. But our skin doesn't make contact. Instead, he holds a dark, black, glinting object in front of my face. _

_So that's where my camera went. _

"_Where the hell is it?" he asks. _

"_What?" I manage, my voice still weak and warped. _

_This time, he does hit me. His right hand comes out of nowhere, balled into a fist, and strikes me so hard that my jaw pops and blood flies out of my mouth. I was already in pain; now it intensifies. It gets so bad that I want to collapse and pass out. _

_But I can't. The chair rocks, but doesn't fall over. I'm forced to stay upright. _

"_Where's your goddamn movie?! We went out, we looked everywhere around where we caught you after you fucking filmed us, and it's not in the damn camera! You weren't running from us that long, you skinny-ass piece of shit, so WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?!" _

_God help me, I still don't know what he's talking about. _

"_I don't know…I don't remember…" _

_He hits me again. This time, I can't hold on. I slip away into darkness, a pool of shadow and blood. The last thing I see is the twisted hallucination of his face. I see hatred and the ecstasy of power. _

_Then, I see nothing. _


	2. Chapter 1: Now I die for One More Day

**Yes! We're back! This is the first chapter of the sequel to "Break with Tears". If you happen to have discovered this fic without having read its predecessor, we strongly advice that you begin there. Thank you the great response we have received for our writing on here! We hope you all will continue to enjoy this series! **

Chapter One

"And Now I Die for One More Day"

Roger

Roger woke drenched in sweat, his chest was heaving, his skin was burning, and yet, he shivered as if cold. His first thought was the fact that he must be running a fever. His second thought repudiated the first, he was immunocompromised; fever was an immune response, and, therefore, a ludicrous explanation for his physical state.

Slowly, he remembered flashes of things, things the logical half of his mind knew were creations of the illogical half, but images that, all the same, sparked renewed terror in his heart.

There had been a pair of eyes in the darkness, once blue now gray with…with pain? No, with pure physical terror. In his dreams, a mangled hand had reached out to him, but he had withdrawn from the touch of the icy, bloodied flesh. Roger quaked as he recalled the scrapping of a metallic voice—it wrenched his name out of the abyss. It gave birth to his name in a way that made him want to never hear it spoken again. But all of these features were strangely familiar to him, as if he'd seen those eyes, touched that hand, and heard that voice a thousand times before.

But now, someone was saying it again, whispering his name. Roger squeezed his eyes tighter shut, focusing on driving away the voice. A hand was cool on his cheek, and he leapt up, batting it away.

Brown eyes, not blue ones were gazing into his own, and the wrist he had clutched in his hand was warm, and when a pair of plump lips moved on his name, the voice was sweet, not grating. "Roger? Honey? Are you ok?"

"Mimi," He whispered and loosened his grip on her wrist so he could entwine his fingers with hers. He used his free hand to rub his eyes until only one copy of his girlfriend sat on the edge of his bed.

"Are you ok?" She repeated, brushing away a lock of sweat soaked hair from his forehead. "You look so pale." She bent over and gently kissed his forehead.

He laughed softly, realizing that she had done this to check for fever. He took her cheek in his hand and guided her lips to his. "Fine," he said when she'd pulled away from the kiss, "just the strangest dream."

Mimi scowled unconvinced, but let it drop. "Here." She handed him a small pill and a glass of water.

He smiled bitterly before swallowing the AZT.

"Good." Mimi said and reached down onto the floor. "Now, eat." She placed the most gigantic breakfast Roger had ever seen in front of him: five pancakes dripping with syrup, two pieces of buttered toast, four strips of bacon, three links of sausage, a mountain of scrambled eggs, a mug of coffee and a monstrous glass of orange juice.

Roger's eyes widened and his stomach growled. He hadn't eaten in at least three days. He looked up at Mimi, nearly crying in gratitude.

She smiled softly, kissed him, and then lifted a piece of sausage to his lips; he nearly bit off her fingertips as he took a bite. She giggled and popped the remaining bit into his mouth.

Mimi sat back and watched him devour a pancake in two bites. He'd slowed down enough half way through the eggs to offer her some.

"I already ate while you were asleep." She pushed the offered forkful of eggs back in his direction.

He smiled and resumed eating with renewed vigor.

Mimi curled up next to him in the bed laying her head against his calf so she wouldn't get in the way.

As he ate, Roger traced the delicate curve of her shoulder through the t-shirt she wore. It was his and hung off her delicate frame. He wondered if it would hang off of him that same way. Her long, slender legs were folded underneath her and her face was half hidden as she nuzzled into his leg. He let every inch of her body replace the terrible images of the twisted frame from his nightmares.

When he'd nearly finished, and came up for air between gulps of orange juice, he asked, "how'd did you do all this?"

Mimi sat up, crouching on all fours like an animal. "Honey, mama wanted me to marry a nice Spanish man, one requirement for such a marriage is being able to cook well. I would cook more, but you having food is kind of essential." She tapped a finger against the bridge of his nose.

"Not what I meant." He folded half a pancake into his mouth and seemed to only chew it twice before swallowing it. "How'd you buy the food?"

"Well, I know you haven't left this house in a while, but now they have these places called stores where—"

"Oh stop being so silly!" He picked up the final strip of bacon and gave her a tap on the nose with it. "Where'd you get the money for the food, which you purchased at the store and used it to cook this scrumptious breakfast, courtesy of your mother's skillful tutelage?"

Mimi wiped the grease off her nose onto the sleeve of the borrowed t-shirt. "I just picked up a couple of shifts at the club."

Roger bristled and the half-eaten piece of bacon fell back onto the tray. "I thought you said you weren't gonna go back there." He picked up the tray and slammed it down on the floor, making the dishes rattle.

She crawled up on his chest and gently massaged his pectoral muscles. "I know you hate it when I work, but we need the money."

"We were doing fine!" He snapped and straightened up, causing her to tumble off his chest.

"Baby, you hadn't eaten in ages! Benny had been calling about the rent for weeks! Collins would never dare to ask but he needed his money back for the drugs that you didn't have the money for! I hate it too, but there was just no other option." She reached out to stroke his hair. "I'm sorry, baby, but the money is good."

He slapped her hand away. "I was fine! I could've had gigs lined up by tonight to have that money!"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! You haven't left this house except to go and get AZT! You wouldn't go get gigs!"

"I would do anything if it meant you wouldn't have had to go… go… go dance… for half of the perverts in Manhattan—"

"Just say it!" She screamed and leapt up from the bed, eyes dark, and hands trembling with rage. She looked strangely beautiful, but still terrifying. "I _strip, _Roger! I _strip._ I sell my dignity to keep you alive! Hate me for that! Fucking hate me for that! But don't you dare, don't you dare tell me that what I do is wrong! You cannot condemn me, when what I do keeps you alive! Keeps me alive! When something needs doing, I go out and do it, maybe it's not what I want to do, but I do it because it needs doing!"

That sentence took Roger several seconds to work out, by the time he'd realized what she meant, she was several sentences ahead in her rant.

"When you get off your ass, then maybe you can judge me! Until then, Roger Davis, just shut the fuck up!" She slammed the door behind her as she left.

Roger sat for only a second considering actually just letting her leave, before he tossed off the covers and chased after her.

He didn't have to go far.

Mimi sat on the steps crying into her hands. She looked so small and fragile; she could have easily been only ten years old instead of twenty. He slowly sat down next to her and draped an arm around her shaking shoulders.

She pulled away from him and huddled closer to the wall.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "That wasn't fair of me. And… you're right… I've been so selfish and self-pitying… and I'm sorry… I'm just… a jealous asshole. Mimi, I love you so much and I hate to think that anyone gets to look at you in that way. Mimi, I love you and you're more than just an object to me, you're everything to me. I'm sorry."

She looked up, her tear-stained face hidden no longer by her hands, but was still partially concealed by her hair. She sniffled wetly.

"Oh, baby," Roger cooed and opened his arms to her. "I'm sorry. Come here."

She smiled softly and snuggled into his embrace. "I'm sorry I got so mad."

"Hush. Hush. I'm the one who has to be sorry."

"Oh, don't be silly!" She laughed into his chest.

"Do you want to go back inside and start over?"

She laughed again. "I'm out of food."

"We'll just pick up where we left off." Roger stroked his girlfriend's hair before picking her up and carrying her back into the loft.

* * *

Roger watched Mimi as she slept curled up on the bed. He twirled an embossed business card between his fingers. Mark had left it behind, stuck to the fridge with a magnet and a note that read "if you ever need me".

Finally, he reached out and picked up the phone and dialed.

"Good morning, this is Sara with freelance productions, how can I help you?"

"Um… hi…. my name's Roger… Davis… and… look, my friend Mark Cohen works for your company and I wondered…um… if there was anyway to reach him…he doesn't have a home phone and I… I need him…. need to talk to him."

"Mark Cohen?" The woman repeated, and Roger thought he heard a quiver in her voice.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mark stopped showing up to work two months ago. A missing persons report has been issued. I'm sorry, sir, I can't tell you anything else. If you want more information you'll have to get in touch with the D.C. police. I'm sorry I can't help you."

The line went dead.


	3. Chapter 2: More than One Dimension

Chapter 2

Mark

"More Than One Dimension"

The second they knew the film was gone he was dead.

It hadn't taken long for Mark's memory of that night to return. In fact, everything was vivid now.

Horribly vivid.

* * *

_Flashback_

* * *

_He took the metrorail to King Street. It was the high point of the day, around one o' clock, but the gray sky and dreary promise of rain made the world dark. It was already starting to drizzle as Mark disembarked at the station. His spirits were low; he still hadn't called Roger to apologize for the fight they'd had a few days before, and he was behind in his filming. D.C. was different from New York. The poverty was different, the people were different, the general atmosphere was different. He had a few things filmed but was having trouble cutting them together. _

_Most of all, though, Mark was lonely. He had a few friends, but he missed the friends he'd left behind. And now he and Roger were fighting. _

_Mark trudged out onto the avenue. Eventually, he left behind the large crowds from the station. Once he reached the smaller streets, the sense of abandonment was enough to encompass him. There was no one in sight. He always took this alley path to his small apartment; the seclusion suited him. Was he the perfect target for muggers? Probably. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care. _

_He raised his camera and silently filmed the vacant, dark corners as he walked through them. A few raindrops fell smoothly against his skin. If it got any worse, he'd have to put the camera away. He wanted these shots, though. Quiet shots like this could be forced into just about any film as fillers._

"…_asshole was trying to fuck with me! Thought he could screw us over, get a fix without paying for it. He'd been screwing us for a long time. So I told him he could pay, or I could shoot him. Gave him two days, didn't fucking pay…" _

_Mark froze. The camera wavered in his hands. He could hear the raised voices clearly; they were just around the corner, filling a wide alley. _

"_So you shot him? You fucking shot a senator's brother 'cause he couldn't pay his smack? Did you ever think that maybe a damn murder is NOT what we need right now?! Cops already know someone's dealing this shit, they just didn't know it was us. Now if they catch us we'll have a fucking murder to deal with on top of it!" _

_Mark's heart was pounding so brutally that he was sure it was audible. The murder of Garrett White had been all over the news. It was a high-profile case, and his camera was capturing every word of the murderer's confession. His mind reeled. He couldn't think clearly, couldn't figure out exactly what this could mean. All that mattered was getting it on film. _

_He was so close to them. The camera was still rolling, still recording every moment of the conversation. He hugged the large, slanting shadow reaching downwards from the nameless building that formed a wall around the criminals. If he just stayed in the shadow…just a few moments more…_

_Mark tilted the camera. A corner of the lens protruded around the corner. He could practically feel it process the tiniest glimpse of their faces. _

"_So it's fine if you shoot any damn addict you want, but my guy's got a name so it's some huge issue. We'll ride it out. There's no gun, they're not gonna find us." _

"_They'll find us. What do you think they've got those damn detectives for? Fuck, we're in deep shit, we're in such deep shit…What? What is it? What are you staring at?" _

"_What the hell is that?" _

_Silence. _

"_I think…oh, crap…oh, SHIT…it's a fucking camera!!" _

_Mark didn't have time to feel the dread sink into his stomach. He just knew that footsteps were pounding down the alley towards him. He swore to himself over and over, as though the words could assuage some of the terror, and took off in a dead sprint. _

_He didn't get very far. _

* * *

At some point during that chase, Mark had realized something: there was no way they'd let him live. Once they had the film, he was dead, silenced forever. So he got rid of it. He tore the reel out as he ran, dodging the corners with blind precision. He tore the film at some point. The running was a blur, but he remembered the feeling of the slick surface ripping apart in his hands. He remembered tossing it into an empty dumpster, using whatever time he could afford. It wasn't long before they caught up with him, but the film was gone by then.

That was two months ago. He had been living in this hellhole for what seemed like an eternity. He was fed regularly—the heroin business was thriving in D.C., and Jared and Matt were the biggest heroin dealers in this part of the city. The drug surrounded Mark daily; the small white packets were everywhere, stuffed into boxes, some hidden in teddy bears or other items and some not. His captors dealt some other drugs too—cocaine, marijuana. Heroin was the drug that brought home the money, though.

_I never should never have left New York, _thought Mark to himself. _It was the biggest mistake I ever made. _

And now? Now what would become of him? He didn't know if he'd come out of this alive.

He shifted in his seat. He'd give anything in the world to not be tied here every day. When everyone was here, he was allowed to walk around the basement hideout; when they were out, though, like Jared and Matt were now, Mark was left tied.

"Everyone" consisted of very few people—just Jared, Matt, and Jared's girlfriend Nadia. She was the one who sat with Mark now. She was perched on one of the boxes, filing her nails, obviously bored. Mark knew by now that she hated it here. She and Jared had a house somewhere, but now someone had to be in the basement to watch Mark at all times, so they took shifts. Wherever the "basement" was. Mark still didn't know. He hadn't been outside in the two months he'd been here.

He missed the sun; he missed light. Everything inside of him ached for it. He missed smiling faces and friendly eyes. He missed being whole—not in constant pain, constant emptiness.

Nadia reminded Mark of Mimi in everything except character. She was a beautiful Hispanic, with her dark hair cropped short, and could be witty and fascinating. But she was shallow and broken. There was no hiding the twisted darkness within her.

The silence that enveloped them made Mark uncomfortable. The tiny window let in its musty light, but it slanted past them, leaving both captor and captive enveloped in darkness as they waited for Jared and Matt to arrive.

"Are they going to kill me?" Mark asked, his voice awkwardly cutting into the quiet.

Nadia rolled her eyes and turned to look at him. "When the hell are you going to stop asking me that? I don't know, ok? I don't fucking know. But if we find out that someone's got that movie, you'll wish you were dead, Cohen." She turned back to her nails.

Mark shrugged as best he could. "It just seems like a valid question. We're in no-man's-land here. I left the film where I told you I left it, and now they haven't found it. So what are you going to do with me? Keep me tied up here forever? Kill me? Let me go? I imagine you have to come to a decision at some point."

She let the nail file drop to the floor, exasperated. "Will you _shut up?" _

"You might as well talk to me. No harm in talking."

She regarded him, her beautiful dark eyes catching a falling ray of light. Her stare was hard and accusatory. "You know, everything was fine before you showed up with your camera. We had everything figured out. We were going to get fucking _rich. _Now everything revolves around finding that damn movie of yours!"

Mark let hardness leak into his own stare. "You think you had everything figured out? Matt committed a high-profile murder. Let's see how long it takes _that _to catch up to you. He's just lucky it happened in an alley that was a center for half D.C.'s drug dealers and that no one even knew this client was a druggie; otherwise, they'd have tracked it back to Matt by now. You'd all be in jail."

"You don't know what you're talking about," said Nadia coldly. "You don't know how it works with people like us."

"My best friend and his girlfriend were both addicted to smack in the middle of New York City. Believe me, I know how it works. I know how ugly it can get. I know that people kill and betray and kidnap to stay out of trouble and out of withdrawal."

She laughed bitterly and shook her head. "Whatever. I don't care what you think. I'd shoot you in two seconds, you know."

"I believe you."

"But the boys think you're still useful for something. That, and they wouldn't know what to do with your body after you're dead without leaving a trail for the cops to trace back to us. But the second we find out what the deal is with the movie, you're dead. Got that?"

Mark didn't answer. He looked away and let the silence return.

Nadia, however, didn't seem so keen on letting stillness settle in again. She was bored; she couldn't help it. She wanted to talk.

"So what's the deal with you, Cohen?" she asked, leaning back against another stack of boxes. "You been in this shithole long? We've had you here for two months and you still don't tell us shit. All we got is your name and job off your ID."

"Anything I tell you is something you can use against me. Besides, it's not like I'm going to be chatting it up with people keeping me prisoner, telling you my life story and what not."

"You got a best friend in New York. What's his name? Is he hot, or all scrawny like you?"

The comment shouldn't have stung. Sadly, it did. "Why would I tell you who my best friend is?"

"Come on, Cohen. Like we can go flying to New York right now to hunt him down."

"Fine. His name is Roger Davis. He plays guitar. I guess he'd be hot to you."

He didn't know why he told her. But she didn't seem to have much of a reaction; she just shrugged nonchalantly. She gazed out whimsically into the darkness. "Sounds hot. Musicians are always hot. You know, Matt was a musician once. I guess he was hot once too."

Mark really couldn't express how little he cared.

Before he could say anything, though, the door opened and Jared entered, Matt in tow. The door didn't lead to light; there was just more shadow, another vacant stretch eventually leading to the world.

Both Matt and Jared were white and muscular, probably in their early thirties. Sometimes they were imposing, even terrifying.

Sometimes they were just pathetic.

Jared crossed over to Nadia without saying a word. She stood up to greet him and kiss him, but he shoved a paper in her face before he could. The look on his face was darkened by fury.

Nadia perused the paper for a second. "Shit," she said, fear entering her eyes.

"They're all over the place," said Jared. "So if we get caught now, we're busted for drug dealing, murder, kidnapping, and a bunch of other shit. We're looking at life."

Matt didn't say anything. He didn't usually talk much. He simply took a drag off a cigarette and sat on the boxes opposite Nadia.

Nadia dropped the paper, and Mark caught a glimpse of the word _MISSING…_above his own picture.

_Took them long enough, _he thought. _Two months before anyone here puts up missing signs for me. _

Jared turned and directed his gaze at Mark. Even covered in shadows, Mark could tell that the hatred in that look didn't bode well.

"Untie him," said Jared, motioning at Mark with his head. Matt stood to obey.

A few seconds later, Mark felt the circulation return to his numb fingers. He would have breathed a sigh of relief, but he was hauled roughly to his feet and his arms remained pinned behind him in Matt's unyielding grip.

Mark knew then that there wouldn't be any relief.

"So I realized something about you, Cohen," said Jared, standing less than a foot away from Mark. "I did a lot of thinking on the way back here today, and some things just didn't seem to click."

_That's because you're an idiot. Thinking isn't your forte. _

"You told us you threw the film into a puddle at the corner of the old office building and the turnoff to the street. Now, that just doesn't make sense, because we went there the next day and didn't see shit. _No one _goes through those alleyways that isn't one of us, and no one would be interested in picking up some movie."

It happened so quickly, before Mark could process it. There was a click and a blur. Then coldness seeped into his forehead. That touch of cold took the shape of a ring of metal, the tip of a cocked .45.

"So the gist of it is, I think you're lying. You've got three seconds to tell the truth before I shoot."


	4. Chapter 3: To disappear

Chapter Three

"To disappear"

Roger

Roger didn't watch as the sliver of blood-red sun crept among the steel lines of the skyscrapers. He didn't listen to the scramble of people on the sidewalk. All the things he might have noticed were lost in the slow blink of the neon green numbers.

There was only one way that he might free himself from the cold chains of terror. And for the moment all he could do was wait.

He was trembling, curled into the fetal position on the floor shaking. He hadn't trembled like this even when he'd been strung out on smack, even when April had died, even when he'd finally come to terms with the AIDS diagnosis. When those things had happened, he'd had Mark there to hold him and tell him to just breathe and that it would be alright.

There was no such comfort now.

He'd promise himself that he wouldn't call until he was certain that the phone would be answered on the other end. But the moment his hand touched the phone he couldn't stop himself. He dialed the number that he had memorized now.

"Washington D.C. police department, department of information." A smooth female voice answered.

"My friend Mark Cohen went missing in D.C. two months ago, I just found out about it yesterday. Please. Please tell me what's going on." He begged. His voice was trembling and he worried that it would be incomprehensible.

He heard the click of manicured nails on a keyboard. "I'm sorry, sir." She cooed. "But I can't give you any information because Mark Cohen's disappearance is part of an ongoing investigation."

Roger dropped the phone, that hadn't been what he had expected.

"Sir? Sir?" Her voice was a thousand miles away and part of the world that had swallowed Mark up.

Roger wasn't sure where he drifted. His mind was two million separate cells all running in two million different directions. There was no uniting emotion to govern his thoughts: fear, anger, distress, pain.

All such simple words, but somehow not enough to describe what he was going through.

How long did he lay there lost?

_What would Mark do?_

_Mark would get off his ass, stop feeling sorry for himself, and come look for me. _

Roger wished that he had Mark's strength, Mark's sense of duty, or even Mark's simple tenacity.

Slowly he pulled himself up off the floor, hung up the phone and walked blankly out of the door, he had the presence of mind to grab his leather jacket on the way out, but not enough to realize where he was going.

* * *

"Roger?"

Roger realized he had missed the door entirely and was staring blankly at the concrete block wall outside of Collin's NYU office.

"Roger?"

He blinked. "How did I get here?"

Collins wrapped his arm around Roger's shoulder and pushed him down onto the ugly yellow couch. He vanished for only a moment and returned with a cold bottle of water.

Roger took the water and stared at it for a moment as if uncertain as of what to do with it. "How did I get here?"

Collins took the bottle of water from his hands and opened it before handing it back to the dazed man. "You walked, I'm sure. That's a long way to walk. You don't remember any of it?"

Roger shook his head and hesitantly took a sip off the bottle of water.

"Have you been drinking?"

"No."

"Are you sick?"

"No."

Collins hesitated before asking his last question. "Drugs?"

"No!" Roger snapped and leapt up off the couch, moving as if to swipe several heavy textbooks from a nearby shelf.

Collins was quicker and grabbed Roger's wrist and shoved him back down onto the couch. "Don't move." He ordered and picked up the phone on his desk and dialed three numbers with the end of a pencil. "Witzer—I need a favor. A friend of mine just walked into my office. Could you come down here and do that voodoo that you do so well. Psycho babble isn't my area of expertise… Thank you my good man!"

"Working at a university has its perks." Collins chuckled but Roger wasn't paying attention. He was tracing the lines on the couch with one finger.

Dr Witzer was a short, balding man with a Brooklyn accent, a German name, and a California sense of style. He wore a burgundy shirt, black slacks and a black pair of flip flops.

Collins rose when the other man entered the room and they slipped into they hallway where they spoke in hushed voices for only a minute, but Collins poked his head back in the room at least six times to check on Roger, who hadn't moved from his position on the couch.

Dr. Witzer pulled Collins's desk chair from behind his desk and sank down in it. He was quite a bit shorter than Collins and his feet dangled off the ground, but he didn't seem to notice. "Roger? I'm Dr. Witzer."

Roger didn't answer.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Roger placed the bottle of water on the floor and sat with his hands folded in his lap. He looked at the stranger with eyes slick with confusion. "A phone?"

"A phone?"

"Did someone call you?"

"No."

"Did you call someone?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I—I don't remember."

Collins leaned in the doorway watching Roger's hands shake. He couldn't bring himself to look up at the man's haunted eyes. He'd never seen him like this.

"Alright, that's fine. So do you know where you are?"

Roger looked up and for the first time met Collins's gaze. "Tom."

"That's right." Collins smiled, not objecting as he normally would have to the use of his first name.

"Why did you come to see Tom?" Dr. Witzer asked drawing Roger's attention again.

"Help?" Roger didn't seem sure of his answer.

"Help." The psychiatrist repeated. "Do you need help?"

"No."

"Does Tom need help?"

"No."

"Someone else needs help."

Roger thought about it for a moment and finally shook his head.

"Roger, do you remember what they need help with?"

"No."

"Do you remember why you thought Tom could help?"

"No."

"Mark," Collins interrupted. "is this getting anywhere?"

"MARK!" Roger shrieked and leapt up from the couch again, kicking over the bottle of water. "MARK! Where's Mark? Collins! Where's Mark?! We have to find Mark!"

"Who's Mark?" The other man named Mark asked backing away slowly from Roger's fit of realization.

"His best friend." Collins replied. "Roger, Mark's in D.C."

"YES!" Roger screamed. "He's in D.C.! We have to find him! He's lost, Collins. Swallowed up!" Roger was gripping the collar of Collins's shirt now, pulling him nearly off his feet, which Collins didn't quite understand how it was happening seeing as he was twice Roger's size and at least six inches taller than the other man.

"Roger." Dr. Witzer slowly removed Roger's hands from the other man's neck and guided him back to the couch. "What do you mean?"

Roger was crying, thick, child-like tears. "I don't know. They wouldn't say. But we have to go find him. Please. He means everything to me. Why did I let him go?"

Dr. Witzer slowly released Roger's wrists. He grabbed three things off Collin's desk, a wad of napkins (which he handed to Roger in place of tissues) a legal pad, and a pen (which he used to quickly scrawl a note to Collins).

_Don't worry. He's disassociating. I don't know what's happened to "Mark" but whatever it is, it's obviously serious. It's real. "Mark" is in real danger. Call D. C. My office is free._

Collins nodded and slid out the door and down the hall into the other man's office where he picked up the phone and dialed a phone number he hadn't called in months.


	5. Chapter 4: A Dark, Dizzy MerryGoRound

Chapter 4

Mark

"A Dark, Dizzy Merry-Go-Round"

He couldn't speak, couldn't try to save himself. His words were heavy and half-formed in his throat.

Death was there in front of him.

"_Jared! _Damn it, Jared! Don't fucking shoot!"

Jared ignored Nadia's screams. He continued to stare down the length of the gun, his hard, sadistic gaze feeding off the fear in Mark's eyes. "Why?" he asked quietly. "You sweet on him? Well, that doesn't change much. I'll just tear his balls off and then shoot him."

"What are you, a fucking moron?! It'll ruin everything, Jared, _everything…" _

She was crying now. She pulled vainly at Jared's arm. "Please, baby. Please. Don't kill someone else. I'm done with killing people. We'll get caught, we'll get put in jail forever, please…"

"_Enough!" _Jared turned on her, his rage fully built. Mark watched his mind in a daze as the gun was swept forward and back, coming down across Nadia's face. A beautiful form was sent sprawling to the ground. She sobbed from where she lay, pressed against the darkness.

But her words had affected Jared. The drug dealer stared at his gun for a moment, his face contorted, before throwing it across the room with a cry of frustration. It landed anticlimactically in a corner, clinking against the concrete floor.

Mark felt detached from his body. His trembling limbs had fallen back against Matt; he shook with relief and lingering adrenaline, feeling like he could drop dead from the sheer knowledge that he wouldn't die today.

The relief was short lived. Mark felt a fist connect sharply with his stomach, then again, and again and again and again until every audible crack of his ribcage sent waves of agony through him.

His arms lost sensation in Matt's grip. His vision swam; his voice cried out involuntarily. It was a familiar feeling. Mark knew beatings better than anyone: beatings from his father, beatings from schoolyard bullies, beatings from Roger going through withdrawal, beatings from muggers. He was a scrawny white Jewish boy, the easiest target in the world. How could he _not _know about beatings?

But that never made it any easier. You never get used to having your body broken.

Finally, Jared stopped. Matt let go of Mark, letting the filmmaker drop silently to the ground in a mess of blood.

"So, what now?" asked Jared, getting down in Nadia's face. Matt had taken Mark's seat and, as usual, was casual and detached, even after another close encounter with murder.

"Tell me, what do I do now? The only chance we have is for this fucker to tell us the truth. If we find out his movie is out there, probably already with the cops, we're screwed. We can't leave here because they'll be crawling all over every inch of the city looking for us. If it's gone, really gone, we can start figuring out how to get out of D.C. before we're caught. But I'm stuck unless I can get _him _to spill!

"And tell me something else. How do you get the truth out of a guy like this? We've beat the shit out of him. I just beat the shit out of him again. Look at him. He's probably gotten his ass kicked every day of his life. I don't know what else to do, I got nothing. So _you _tell _me._"

Nadia kept her gaze fixed on Jared. Her deep, tear-filled eyes were luminous in the darkness, and one of her hands still hovered by the cheek that had been struck. She kept casting glances at Mark, the bloodied form on the ground.

"Well?" asked Jared, impatient now.

There was a pause. Everything was filled with silence; the only sound was Mark's labored breathing.

Mark looked. He tried to find focus, even though the pain was blinding, looked for anything to latch onto…

And instantly wished he hadn't.

The only sight to focus on was Matt's stare. Those quiet, dark eyes were locked on Mark with uncharacteristic intrigue.

Matt spoke then. His voice was low, a deep rumble in the back of his throat.

"Hey, Cohen…wanna get high?"

The terror that passed through Mark was numbing enough to override the pain.

* * *

Mark had promised himself lots of things in life, but usually didn't keep to them. He'd promised himself he'd forgive his father. Hadn't happened yet. He'd promised himself he'd wait for marriage before having sex, trying to hold to some shred of Judaism, but then Maureen had come along. He'd promised himself he'd never abandon his friends, and yet he'd left.

But there was one promise Mark had known he'd never break. He'd sworn to himself that he would never, ever try heroin. He would never let that life-destroying poison enter his veins. He wouldn't surrender his freedom, his future, for the drug's passing euphoria.

And yet here he was, watching Jared prepare the syringe.

Mark wanted to die. Every part of him screamed for death, begged for it, when faced with the threat of addiction. Death before slavery.

They had tied him to the chair again. He hadn't made it easy for them; even though every inch of his body felt like it had been torn apart, he had found it in him to resist. In the end, it had taken another beating to get him down in the chair. But now he was here. There was no more resistance.

"Please, don't." Mark begged. He tasted tears as they streamed down his face and mingled with the blood in his mouth. "Please, I'd rather die than have you put that in me. Please, I haven't done anything, I'll do whatever you want…"

Jared toyed with the syringe, looking it over, passing it between his fingers. "Will you talk?"

"I already did! I told you the truth; I don't deserve this! _Please _believe me! Please…oh shit, _shit, _please believe me…"

_Why aren't you telling him the fucking truth?! This isn't worth it, this isn't worth holding onto life…maybe they'll even let you go if you tell them the truth…maybe they won't kill you…_

But he knew they would. At that moment, Mark hated his humanity. He hated the fact that the instinct to survive was strong enough for him to continue lying. Soon, he would find out if it was strong enough for him to withstand heroin.

"Hold his arm out, Matt."

"Shit…_fuck…_Jared, please!" Mark fought as hard as he could against Matt, but he wasn't strong enough, especially without mobility. His left arm was soon pinned against the arm of the chair while his left arm remained securely strapped to the back of the chair.

"I never did anything to you! I didn't mean to film you, I was just passing through! There's no other truth for me to tell you, no—"

Mark was silenced by the back of Jared's hand. In an instant, Mark felt the cold pinprick of the needle against his skin and knew he had lost.

But there was a pause. Before injecting the drug, Jared looked at Mark, bemused.

"You know, people do this for fun, Cohen. I want you to be scared, but I've never seen anyone scared as shitless as you. So what's your issue?"

Mark couldn't answer. He was white and trembling, and his eyes were empty of tears.

"Said he'd had a friend who was an addict."

Jared looked back at Nadia, who hadn't spoken until now. She had been hanging back in the shadows. She didn't seem to want any part of this, but Mark knew that she wouldn't try to stop it either.

"Oh, I get it," said Jared. His gaze returned to Mark. "Not so pretty, is it?

With that, the needle penetrated Mark's skin.

* * *

It was living warmth.

The sensation spread throughout him like a beautiful blaze of wildfire, and he felt himself escalating through paradise. The fear and panic dissipated as the euphoria made Mark its prisoner.

He had never known it would feel like this. He was freewheeling above the earth. His pain was gone; the world was a dark force detached from him completely.

Such freedom, such warm, rushing freedom…

That ended as quickly as it began.

The warmth became uncomfortable. Soon, it felt like he was being eaten alive by a fire within him. The flames were tearing away at his skin and ripping his muscles and organs apart. Something wasn't right in his body. Soon, he could feel it in his stomach, roiling and fighting. Fighting and winning.

Mark couldn't control anything inside of him anymore. The world came reeling back with the force of a sledgehammer, and soon he was vomiting, vomiting all over himself. He could feel it all too keenly. Every lurching motion of his body was torturous to his bruised ribs. Everything passing up through his throat was made of daggers. For a while, it was food. But after vomiting more than he ever had in his life, there was no food left. Only bile came out, bile mixed with blood.

He was dizzy. He felt like he could pass out from the agony his body was in, or from the effort of the vomiting. He was so broken, broken beyond repair, and oblivion was right there, just beyond consciousness.

Finally, he did pass out. Hours later.

One of the few conscious thoughts Mark achieved was the realization that he was in for a carousel of darkness, a cycle of ecstasy and torture. With his last thought and last breath before passing out, he called out a few words.

Then he was gone. A blessed shadow pulled him away from reality.

Only later would Mark would find out what words he said.

In that last moment, he begged Roger to save him.


	6. Chapter 5: The Heart May Freeze

Chapter Five

"The Heart may Freeze"

Roger

Roger looked up into the mirror. He was struck for the first time by his eyes. Roger's eyes were a pale hazel, nothing spectacular, and nothing that anyone ever noticed. People were often attracted to his soft, flowing hair or his fine cheekbones, but no one ever noticed Roger's eyes. Why would they?

Roger stared at his own face, lifting his finger to carefully trace the reflection of his eyes. He'd heard it said that eyes were the window to the soul. If that was true, he didn't want to see his soul. His eyes were blank. Completely and totally blank. It was as if someone had drawn a vein across his eyes so that one could only see their fragile outline behind the curtain. The only time that he could see some spark of life in his eyes was when the hysteria rose inside him.

He was unshaven and the scruff of his beard cast a strange shadow across his mouth and cheeks. It was as if darkness was pulling in from every side and reaching up toward his mind.

He could feel the prison being erected in his mind. Bar by bar his consciousness was sealing itself off. He was being swallowed up by the depression. Down again he tumbled into hell.

Roger remembered this feeling. He'd felt it only once before. And at that time he swore that he would never be here again: empty, sinking, loneliness and knowledge that he was alone in the world.

He'd felt this way when he'd lost April.

But this time, this was worse. This time, beyond the same feelings of depression, there was the feeling of disappointment. He said that he wouldn't be here ever again. When they'd buried April, Roger had sworn that he would never bury another friend. He'd sworn that he wouldn't be around when he lost another friend.

This wasn't the way that it was supposed to be. Mark was supposed to outlive him, not the other way around.

Maybe this was some sort of sick, poetic justice.

Roger reached down and splashed cold water on his face. The water did nothing to rouse him because it was the exact same temperature as his own skin.

He had to stop thinking like this. Mark wasn't dead yet. He was just missing. Maybe he had just decided to run off and start a new life somewhere else where he had no ties to anyone, nothing to tie him down. People did it, right?

Mark wasn't like that. He was the one who had always wanted them to be a family. He had such a strong desire for them to be interconnected that he wouldn't be the one to desert them… but he had already once… why not again.

"Shut the fuck up!" Roger screamed. His words echoed against the empty walls and came back to echo in his ears. The irrational thoughts were chased away by the screams that seemed to be repeated over and over and over.

He didn't realize that the words weren't only echoing in his memory but in his ears also. He was screaming them.

His forehead was pressed to the tile and his knees ached from his fall to the ground. His mouth was open in an endless scream. He was screaming for his own voice to stop. Screaming because there was nothing else he could do to get rid of the pain and the fear and the darkness in his heart.

She was whispering, whispering because she knew that if she tried to scream he wouldn't be listening. Her arms were entirely fragile as they wrapped around his trembling shoulders. Everything about her seemed so easily breakable. There was no way that she could carry him on her shoulders. There was no way that her strength would be enough to help him through his moment of weakness.

But she did. She lifted him off the ground. She couldn't carry him, but sure enough all of his weight rested on her shoulders as she helped him off the floor. He had no words to stop her and no words to thank her either.

"Mimi." He whispered as she helped him to lie down in the bed.

"Mmmm?" She murmured softly as way of reply as she slid his legs underneath the blankets.

"Mimi."

"Yes."

He reached up and took her face in his hands. He stroked her cheek, running his thumb up and down her skin. He could see her eyes, as rich as molten chocolate, pouring down into his. There was such warmth and comfort in her eyes, if he could only dissolve into those eyes. Her face was so thin and her eyes were so large. How could it be that she could be so tough when he was so helpless?

He didn't want to have to lean on her again. It wasn't fair that she was always the one to carry him.

"I have to help him."

"I know." She tucked the blanket underneath his shoulders.

"I need—"

She leaned over and pressed her lips to his. She swallowed up his words, swallowed up the need for him to ask anything of her. She drank it all in. All the shame he felt was suddenly whisked away by her breath.

She breathed him in.

He didn't even realize it had happened. When she pulled away, something was clutched in his hand.

He didn't look until she was gone, because he knew that when he did he would break down and cry.

His eyes, which moments before had been blank, were now swimming with poignant tears. He was sobbing so hard that he could barely see what it was.

Three-hundred dollars.

He knew where Mimi had gotten it, what she had to sell to get it. And what it meant giving it up so that he could run off and chase down a dream that was fading fast.

She would always be stronger than he was.


	7. Chapter 6: Cold Eyes Can Burn

Chapter 6

Mark

"Cold Eyes Can Burn"

It was his fifth day on heroin.

Already, he could feel the dependency growing. The euphoric stage was still short, but it was getting longer, and he didn't get as violently ill afterwards. The instinctual part of him, the force detached from reason, looked forward to his daily heroin fix.

But that was what Mark feared the most. First he would start to enjoy it. Then he would start to need it. Then he would reach the point where it would become the focus of his life.

That's when they would take it away, and his body would fall apart.

It was some hour late in the night or early in the morning. Mark's "bed" was a scattered collection of musty-smelling old pillows in a back storage closet of the basement. At night, they locked him in here and took turns sleeping at the hideout. In the corner of the main room, there was a mattress with sheets, just an old tattered thing that had been there when Mark was first kidnapped. Mark supposed that it had been used on rare occasions back then, in case one of them needed to stay overnight with the drugs. Now they used it regularly. At any rate, it seemed more comfortable than Mark's closet.

Mark couldn't sleep tonight. The heroin lingered in him, and his body still ached in dull retaliation. His stomach was just unsettled enough to keep him from being able to rest. He was curled in a cramped, pitch-black shadow. His eyes were wide open. Sweat poured down his skin.

A taunting feeling gnawed at the back of Mark's mind.

_What I wouldn't give to get high right now. _

Mark felt a couple of tears slide down his pale skin. It wouldn't take long for him to get addicted, his worst fear in the world.

He sighed. No one heard it. The quiet, departing breath barely penetrated the stillness.

But then another sound did.

Mark looked up sharply when he heard the sound of the lock turning.

When the door opened, it remained dark. There was no light in the basement to filter into the closet. That being so, it took Mark a few minutes of eye adjustment to distinguish Mat's silhouette filling the doorway. The next thing Mark knew, he was being hauled to his feet. His glasses had been returned to him a long time ago, but he didn't have time to pick them up and put them on, so the dark forms of the world whirled indistinctly. His head throbbed. His legs didn't want to stand upright.

Mat didn't seem to care. He pushed Mark out the doorway, back into the main area of the basement, and made no move to help as the filmmaker stumbled and fell.

Mark looked up from where he lay against some cardboard boxes and miscellaneous trash. He could feel Mat standing over him.

Time to surrender. Mark closed his eyes and let his body fall against the uncomfortable collection of objects beneath him, ready to let whatever was coming his way come. Ready for whatever beating he didn't deserve. Ready for whatever sick torture they had concocted now. Ready to not talk, even though every part of him screamed for him to tell the truth.

But nothing came. Mat simply stood over him, silent.

"What do you want?" muttered Mark quietly.

"I have a question for you."

"I don't know where the fucking film is."

"That's not my question."

Mark opened his bleary eyes, wishing desperately for his glasses. "Ask it, then."

Mat knelt down. Mark could feel alcoholic breath just a few inches from his face.

"When you were high," said Mat, "you called out for someone to help you. Not just once, but every time, even when you were all happy-giddy and shit. You kept begging for someone to save you…someone named Roger."

"That's not a question, but ok." _What's Roger to you, bastard? Why do all of you want to know about Roger? Leave him out of this; leave my friends out of this. _

"I mentioned it to Nadia and Jared. Nadia said you told her about him, that he was your musician friend in New York. Said his name was Roger _Davis." _

"Yeah, that's right. What's it to you?"

Mat suddenly grabbed Mark's shirt and pulled the filmmaker close to him. Mark could feel rage in that grip; Mat was trembling and breathing hard.

"Is this Roger Davis the same Roger Davis who played with the Four Horsemen? The one who went to New York like four or five years ago?" His whisper was hard and fast. It held anger. It held desperation.

"Is this the Roger Davis who was addicted to smack?"

Mark was numb with fright. He couldn't understand what connection there could be between Mat and Roger. He felt himself shaking in Mat's grip, but couldn't answer. What if he put Roger in danger?

Mat gave Mark an emphatic shake that send a wave of throbbing pain through Mark's head. "Tell me, damn you! Tell the truth for once, you fucker! _I need to fucking know!_"

Mark remained silent.

It didn't have the effect he wanted, though. Mat relaxed. A soft, eerie laugh escaped him.

"That's him, isn't it? You're just trying to cover his ass."

"What do you want with him?" asked Mark.

Mat laughed again. Every time, it was more unnerving. "Why? Is he your boyfriend or something, fag?"

"Shut the hell up, Mat. You're drunk. You don't know what you're talking about."

"You're in no position to tell me to shut up, Cohen."

"What do you want with my friend?"

Mat flung Mark away from him in disgust. The drug dealer stood up and paced, leaving Mark alone on the ground. Then, Mark heard a sudden crash as Mat kicked something in anger.

"I want to kill him."

Mark's heart was racing. "Why would you want to do that?" he asked in a quavering voice.

Mat's breath was audible now, coming out heavily as the adrenaline of total rage consumed his body.

"Because Roger Davis is the bastard who got me addicted to smack. Roger Davis is the one who fucked up my life."

There were tears of wrath behind Mat's voice. The tears became outright sobs. Another crash. Curses, spoken quickly under Mat's breath.

Mark tried to pull himself up. He reached out for anything solid and eventually, using the touch of cardboard and metal, managed to get himself into a standing position.

"You can't touch him, Mat," said Mark. He let a warning and a threat leak into his passive voice. "He's thousands of miles away. Let it go."

The crashes stopped. The white orbs of eyes turned suddenly towards Mark. There was a loaded pause.

"No, I can't touch him," Mat finally conceded quietly.

"But I _can _touch you."

* * *

The next day, Jared would enter the hideout for his shift around midmorning to find Mat gone.

Then he would look down at the middle of the floor and see a mutilated form bathed in blood, a second away from death.


	8. Chapter 7: Another Place

Chapter Seven

"Another Place"

Roger

D.C. was wrong. It was all wrong. The buildings were wrong. It was as if he was trapped inside of a great mouth and the buildings were crooked teeth ready to rip him to shreds. The air was wrong. As busy as New York was the air didn't taste as heavy with smog as it did here. Roger almost gagged when he stepped out of the airport. He was thankful to now be breathing the filtered air of the city bus.

The woman sitting across the aisle wasn't from New York either. She didn't have the same hardened edge that New Yorkers have. She wouldn't tell him that he looked like shit, even though he did. She wasn't about to offer him a cigarette and begin telling him her life story and then listen to his. D.C. people weren't like New York people. They weren't about to just share information with them. Roger realized that this would be a bad thing when he was alone in the city looking for someone to help him.

When he got off the bus and stood out in front of a building he'd never seen before he realized that even the rain felt wrong. It was sliding down his face like his own tears, sticking to his skin in the way rain just wasn't supposed to do.

For one moment he wanted to chase down the bus that was rounding the corner. He wanted to climb back on it and escape from this place. How could Mark have lived here? How did he not simply run all the way back to New York?

Rain had soaked through his t-shirt and he was shivering. He made his way slowly through the glass doors and was greeted by the hostile stare of a custodian who was emptying the trash. Roger realized that he was dripping dirty rain water all over the floor. "I'm sorry." He murmured and walked across the lobby leaving a river of water in his wake.

The elevator creaked as it made its way up to the fifth floor. FreeLens was sandwiched right between an insurance office on the fourth floor, and on the sixth floor, a place that on the small plaque inside the elevator defined itself as a telecommunications resource center.

_Telemarketers. _Roger thought bitterly as the elevator dinged open.

The room was bright, too bright considering how gray the world outside was. A woman, as equally sunny as the room, was seated behind a desk was tapping keys on the white keyboard of a Mac. Her pale yellow cardigan hung off her shoulders and her lips were parted as she focused on the screen.

Her name plate identified her as Sara Taylor. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she looked up at Roger. The smile on her face melted as she took in his bedraggled appearance. "Can I… help you?"

"I'm not sure." Roger answered and pushed his own hair back causing a shower of droplets to fall from the ends. "I need help."

"Sir, we're a film production company, I don't know what you're looking for, but I don't know how we can assist you unless you're looking for someone to film something for you…" She wasn't really paying attention to what she was saying; she was busy trying to hide the fact that she was dialing her desk phone.

"You don't need to call security. I'm looking for my best friend. He works… he worked here for a few months. He's gone missing. I need to find him."

"Oh, Mark." Something softened in the woman's eyes and she hung the phone up. "So that makes you Mr. Davis."

"Roger." He corrected her.

"Roger." She glanced up at the clock. "If you let me finish printing off these memos, I can leave here and we can walk down the street and get something to drink and talk about what happened to Mark."

Roger smiled. "You're not originally from here, are you?"

Sara smiled softly. "No, New York. How could you tell?"

"I have a feeling that people from this town don't just agree to have drinks with strangers who walk into their office dripping wet and looking like… well looking like what I look like…"

Sara laughed again. "If you were Mark's best friend, you can't be a bad person. Mark was probably the sweetest guy I've ever met." The printer squealed as it began churning out memos.

Roger didn't smile. "Mark was the better of the two of us. I should've been here sooner. Maybe I should've stopped him from coming."

Sara didn't say anything. She pulled the stack of papers out of the printer, paper clipped them, and then stepped into the other room. Roger heard the soft flutter of voices and then Sara returned.

She was shorter than he had first thought, the top of her head only came up to his chin and that was including the inch her lemon yellow pumps added onto her height. She was pulling her dark hair back into a bun.

"Here." She held a red umbrella out to him. "You need this."

"I could use a towel more." He said accepting the umbrella.

She chuckled and leaned against the edge of the desk in order to pull off her shoes and shove her small feet into rain boots. She grabbed a khaki raincoat off the back of her chair.

"I can buy you a brandy. Would that work just as well?"

Roger shrugged. "Close enough."

He felt a sudden twinge of guilt as he followed Sara out of the office. He was here to find Mark, not to enjoy conversations with the receptionist. He let her do all the talking on the way down to the bar.

She ordered their drinks and guided him to a table in the back of the place. "Please," He said accepting his brandy from her. "You said you could tell me about Mark."

"Look, I don't know much, no one does, believe me I've been trying to find out. But something's gone terribly wrong. He just stopped showing up for work one day. He seems to have just vanished. The police won't tell me anything. But there's a lot of things that go on in D.C. that aren't… kosher…"

"Are you saying that Mark was involved in some sort of… crime ring?" Roger nearly jumped up, clearly this woman didn't know Mark if she was going to accuse Mark of being some sort of criminal.

"No. No. Not at all!" She grabbed his arm to keep him seated. "I'm saying that something might have happened to him because of people like that."

Roger clutched his drink. He remembered once, back when he'd been with the band, he'd gotten involved with the New York mob. He'd made some bets and hadn't been able to make good on them. That hadn't ended well. A clean cut guy like Mark would have been in far more danger from the mafia.

"Why do you think that?"

"I knew Mark. He wouldn't just run off. He had a lot to live for here. He had a job. He was doing well with our company. And…" Her voice trailed off.

"You weren't just his friend were you?" Roger leaned forward and even in the half-light of the bar, he could see the glisten of tears in her eyes.

"I wasn't his girlfriend if that's what you're asking."

"Yet."

Her cheeks flushed scarlet. "Mark was… too respectful… too… sweet… he wouldn't have asked me out."

Roger drained the brandy from the glass. He realized as he went to place the glass back down on the table that he was shaking. He stared at his hand watching the tremor make his fingers twitch before he clenched his fist to stop the quivering.

"What are we going to do?" Roger asked.

He didn't realize that he was clenching and unclenching his fist until she wrapped her hand around his.

"Do you love him?" She asked.

It was a strange question. No one had really ever asked him whether or not he loved Mark. People had asked him whether or not he cared about Mark, whether or nor Mark mattered to him. But no one had ever asked him whether or not he loved Mark.

"Not… like that…"

"I didn't mean like that. Platonically? Do you love him?"

Roger was here because he would do anything to protect Mark. Roger was here because the last words he had ever said to Mark were eating him alive on the inside. Roger was here because…

"Yes." He whispered. "Yes, I love him."

Sara didn't have to say it out loud, but Roger could read it in her eyes that she loved him too. "Then, we'll find him. We have to find him."

Roger couldn't believe he was doing this. He was doing what Mark always did. Being in charge, saving lives, this was Mark's job.

Not his.

Roger looked up to find a man who looked strangely familiar staring at him from behind a beer. When the man noticed Roger's gaze he turned away and busied himself dialing his cell phone.

He looked back to Sara and realized that she was as unfamiliar to him as the man at the bar. He was a stranger in a strange town. He was an outsider dependent upon their kindness. He hoped that Mark would be able to find some strangers who were as willing to help.

But Mark wasn't a foreigner her. This was where Mark belonged now… wasn't it?

His wet t-shirt was sticking to the vinyl.

He hadn't even noticed that he had begun to cry.


	9. Chapter 8: It's the End and I'm Alone

Chapter 8

Mark

"It's The End, And I'm Alone"

Abstract forms, abstract faces. They drifted in silence. They were black silhouettes against a black sky. Quiet snatches of sound penetrated his dream world with the harsh blare of megaphones. The only constancy was a gentle thumping, a distant, pulsating rhythm—his heartbeat. He could feel it in his mind.

It never registered that having a heartbeat meant he was alive.

Another glaring sound. Mark wished they would stop. Who kept talking back there in reality? It was disturbing his death. If they'd just shut up, he'd be able to slip away.

But it came again. Strangely, he recognized the voice as Nadia's this time, distorted and fragmented. It pulled him out of the shadows. He watched them dissipate, becoming a hazy, blood-shot vision of the world.

The pain returned with the consciousness. There were knives in every part of his body, twisting themselves.

_Let me die. _

He didn't get what he wanted. He never did.

* * *

"The bastard. What the hell was he thinking? Could've killed him. Not that killing people seems to bother him."

Nadia was mumbling to herself. Mark was looking up through eyes that were barely open, and he could see her in the slit of light. She was bent over him and he was lying on the mattress. Some sort of lamp must have been near her, because there was never this much light in the basement. Mark could see her face clearly.

Damn, she was beautiful.

Damn, his body hurt.

"It hurts," he moaned.

Talking was a bad idea. He started coughing instantly, and blood came up through his throat.

Nadia started at the sound of his voice. Then she looked at him, trying to be disgusted even though her eyes were full of compassion.

"You," she said. "You're awake. What the hell did you do to make Mat so angry?"

Mark simply shook his head. A gasp of pain escaped him and he laid his head to the side with a groan.

"This is going to hurt," she said. "Your tibia needs to be straightened. I couldn't get a full cast, but I'm going to put a splint on it. Obviously I need to set it without anesthesia though."

"Wait," whispered Mark. "Why didn't you do it while I was asleep?"

"Because I was fixing the rest of you while you were asleep."

Mark knew she was right. He was bare-chested and bound in bandages. Everything was applied expertly, though. In the midst of his pain, Mark was intrigued. When he inclined his neck (a position he could only hold for a second), he even saw a line of stitches across a cut on his stomach.

"How do you know about all this?"

Nadia had been busy cleaning his twisted left leg with a soft washcloth. Now, she looked over at Mark. Her eyes were haunted.

"I wanted to be a nurse," she said, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. "That's what I wanted to do my entire life. As a kid I studied in whatever spare time I had. I volunteered at hospitals, veterinary clinics; anywhere I could get hands-on experience. Then I started with pre-med as an undergrad and wanted to go on to med school."

"But you didn't?"

For a moment, it looked as though she was going to cry. Instead, she turned back to his leg.

"No. I didn't."

"Why not?"

"I'm going to set the bone now. On the count of three, ok? One…"

She did it. He wasn't ready. It was a sharp movement, a single crack, but the shot of pain reached all the way through Mark's leg and up to his body. One bone. An onslaught of agony.

He screamed. Actually, a loud, raspy noise was torn from his throat—he was incapable of a scream.

Then it was over. His leg felt numb. It throbbed, like his heartbeat. Mark let his head fall to the side with a whimper. Tears wet his face.

"Sorry," said Nadia, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "But it's done now." She began applying the splint, which was simply a rolled up towel that would be bound to his leg by bandages. The touch of the towel was cool and comforting.

She worked for a while to the sound of Mark's broken breathing. Then, the gentle voice returned, even though she didn't meet his eyes.

"I fucked up. That's why I didn't go on to med school; I screwed up. I got pregnant, which was bad enough. My family didn't want to support me, and my boyfriend walked out on me. But, you know, I still decided to have the baby. Figured that if I was such a screw-up, I might as well raise a kid who would have a better life than me.

"But my son came out all messed up. His heart wasn't working, and he was just too small. They couldn't save him.

"I'd come to love that kid. Even before he was born, I was picturing my life, raising my little boy. Thought that maybe I'd even be able to go back to school someday, and he'd be able to tell all his friends that his mommy was a nurse. So when he died, everything inside of me died—I didn't want to go back to school. I didn't want to do anything.

"So I drank. Drinking led to drugs. Drugs led to smack. Even when I got off smack, I kept running in those circles, and then I met Jared. He's such a sweet-talker; he made me feel good. Not good about myself, but made me feel alive, even though I knew he didn't give a shit about me. He still doesn't."

She stopped there. The splint was done.

There were a million questions Mark wanted to ask—why was she still with Jared, why didn't she escape, why didn't she try to fix her life. Instead, he reached out a hand and laid it on her arm, even though his own arm trembled with the pain of doing so.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

Nadia met his eyes now. The second she did, her own eyes filled with tears.

"Me too," she said, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry too."

That was when she broke down. She sobbed against the mattress, full, deep sobs that shook her entire body. She moved her arm and inserted her hand into Mark's, squeezing tight. Mark guessed that no one had held her hand in a very long time; it was likely that no one had held _her _in an even longer time. He wished he had the strength to do so.

Finally, it ended. Her sobs died down to a soft stream of tears. She let go of Mark's hand and wiped her face.

"I don't know why I told you all that," she said. "I don't get why you, of all people, seem to care."

"Because you're not a bad person."

That got her crying again.

* * *

Mark spent a lot of time in Nadia's company over the next few days. They didn't talk much, not after Nadia's confession, but Jared didn't come by the hideout much and Mat didn't come by at all.

Jared only came by to inject Mark with heroin. He did it every other day, even though Nadia begged him not to at first. But Nadia was insecure, and Jared completely overpowered her. Mark could only watch in despair as she backed away, as the needle entered his vein.

He was definitely getting addicted now. The days that Jared didn't come by were hard to get through; Mark's body ached for the heroin, and he craved the feeling of being high. He hated himself for it.

After another week passed, the need was so great that it consumed him. He would watch the door, sweating, until Jared entered. The normal things—eating, drinking, going to the bathroom—took second stage to the heroin.

Mark was determined to get Nadia on his side. Part of it was for selfish motives; she was his only chance out of here. Part of it, however, was because he saw a good person in her, someone very similar to Mimi. He didn't want that person to go to waste in this hellhole.

One day, Jared hit her. She worked up the courage to protest the heroin again. Mark was secretly glad when Jared didn't give in—he needed that heroin. But the fact that Nadia was fighting Jared again gave Mark confidence, since it meant that she was starting to take charge of her own life again.

Jared didn't dare hit Mark yet, not while the filmmaker was still so fragile. But he gladly hit his girlfriend. Only when she was broken on the ground did Jared finally stalk out, furious.

Mark waited while Nadia pushed herself to her feet. He was leaning against the wall; his latest high was over. Jared no longer had to tie Mark down to administer the heroin. Mark was all too eager now, which would make the torture of withdrawal even more painful.

"Are you ok?" coaxed Mark, walking over to her.

Nadia stood. "Why do you care?!" she asked in a sudden burst of anger.

Mark took a few more steps towards her. "He shouldn't treat you that way."

"For God's sake, Mark! Don't you see what he's doing? When they stop giving you the heroin, you're going to go through hell! And I'm part of this! Or have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten that you're my prisoner here? Hell, I could kill you if I felt like it. I don't get you. We do all this to you, and you still ask _me _if _I'm _ok. Why, Mark?"

She had never called him Mark before. Everyone here had just called him Cohen.

"Because you're not like them, and you shouldn't be here. You don't belong here, Nadia. You could be so much more than this."

Mark knew at that moment that he meant it. He didn't know anymore if he would ever get out of here, and even if he did, where would he go? He needed the heroin. He couldn't go back to his former life. Mark realized that he hadn't thought about filmmaking in months; would he ever want to go back to it? Or would he just be a slave to his addiction?

This was exactly what had happened to Nadia. She'd given up all her opportunities. Mark wasn't sure where his life would go, but everything would be worth it if he could give Nadia her life back.

Suddenly, she drew close to him. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled close; he tried not to let her see him wince as she pressed against his healing ribs. Her voice was a breath in his ear.

"Do you love me, Mark Cohen?"

_Do I? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. _

He held her close for a moment, breathing in the smell of her hair, the smooth touch of her skin. Then he gently disengaged her. Their arms, however, remained locked together.

As he drank in the sight of her depthless eyes, Mark knew that he could come to love her.

"That's not what you need right now," Mark whispered. "If I told you I loved you, you would just shift your dependency from Jared to me. What you need is your own life. You need to stand by yourself again, find that beautiful girl that the world has lost."

She smiled through a tear-filled gaze. "No one's ever spoken to me like that before and actually meant it."

"Well, I do mean it. Help me, Nadia. We can escape right now. You can come back to New York with me, a place where no one will know your name or your mistakes. I have a friend, Collins, who has a job at NYU. He could get you in touch with financial aid there and you could go back to school. It's not too late for your dreams, Nadia. You'd love my friends. I know you and Mimi would hit it off right away—that's Roger's girlfriend, and you two are so alike."

She didn't say anything. She looked away, her arms drifting back to her sides.

But Mark wouldn't give up that easily. He took her shoulders, holding her hard, and forced her to look at him.

"Nadia, they're dying! My friends are dying! I know now that it was a terrible mistake to come here and leave them. As it is, if I ever see them again, it'll be through the blur of withdrawal. But I at least need that chance. Please, you need to help me."

Before he knew it, she was kissing him. God, he hadn't kissed a girl in so long. He knew he should be pushing her away, but it was just so amazing, so intimate. Her lips became his world. The salty taste of her tears was in his mouth, and her body was melded to his. He never wanted it to end. After this, how could he ever stand to be alone?

She broke away. Too soon. Mark wanted to pull her back, but he didn't. He let her step away.

Then she said something that broke his heart.

"I can't help you."

Nadia ran out of the basement, tears covering her face. She locked the door behind her, and Mark was trapped again.


	10. Chapter 9: Some Lives That We've Chosen

Chapter Nine

"Some Lives That We've Chosen"

Roger

"This was his apartment. I think he only gave me the keys because I gave him mine. He was a nice guy." The girl pushed her horn-rimmed glasses back up on her nose. "What did you say happened to him?"

"That's just it, ma'am." Roger replied, glancing cautiously about the small apartment. "We don't know. It's part of an ongoing investigation. Thank you for your assistance." He gave her a curt nod and she muttered something about the fact that it was no problem before ducking out of the apartment.

Roger waited until the door closed behind her before letting his back slump from its ram-rod straight position. It was amazing what an expensive blazer would do. Sara had lent it to him along with a pair of dress pants and a shirt that she said her ex-boyfriend had left behind when he'd moved out three years ago. Luckily she'd never found the time to give them to the Salvation Army.

Of course the girl who had lived next door was only a college-student and was naïve enough to trust that a man who didn't show a badge was working for the police. She'd said it was strange that no one had come before to look at the apartment.

No one cared that Mark was gone. The police hadn't even bothered to come into this apartment. Mark was alone in D.C. and no one gave it a second thought except for Sara… and Roger…

And Mark had chosen to move here all alone? Some life.

The apartment was untouched. It was exactly how Mark had left it. A jacket was draped over the back of the one armchair. An empty coffee cup sat on the table. Mark had clearly been doing better for himself than they had been doing in New York. They could've hardly afforded a coffee cup let alone a coffee maker—like the one that sat proudly on the countertop next to a state-of-the-art microwave. I guess having a regular nine-to-five-job had its perks.

There wasn't much in the apartment. There were a couple strange photographs framed in 10 cent frames that hung on the walls. They had been Mark's sad attempt to make the place look homey. They were photographs of things that looked strangely familiar to Roger. They were all black and white shots of landscapes: a crooked shot of a street lined with perfectly straight buildings, a street clogged with taxi cabs, a park empty and covered in snow. There was only one shot that seemed to contain a person. It was a silhouette and Roger could barely see the shadow of the form against the building. It wasn't until he saw that the man in the photograph was holding a guitar that he realized the man was him.

Roger reached up and plucked the photograph from the wall. He'd never realized that Mark had taken the picture. Even though the outline of him was vague, he could tell that he had been facing away from the camera, looking out across the city. He placed the photo on the floor, facing the wall.

On the small, rickety coffee table were two books, a copy of "Great Expectations" which hadn't been opened. It was a gift from someone who didn't know Mark well enough to realize that he didn't have time for reading, let alone for reading something that required as much concentration as Dickens. Roger brushed the dust off the cover of Dickens and set it aside. The other book was also covered in dust. But Roger could see that this book was well worn.

He picked it up and ran his hands over the leather. It was the photo album that he had given Mark before he had left. Roger smiled glad to know that Mark hadn't forgotten him and gently placed it back down onto the table.

The door to Mark's bedroom was shut. Roger felt strange as he pushed it open. He was almost invading Mark's privacy. The feeling was alien to him. When they had lived together Roger had felt no shame rooting through Mark's private possession, but now he wasn't sure if he should be doing this. Mark's life wasn't something he was apart of anymore.

But for all his reservations, he slid in to the room anyway. It was frozen in time. Mark could have just stepped out for a moment. If Roger hadn't just come from the front room, he would've sworn that Mark was seated out there and would come in at any moment. The bed was unmade and the pillow rumpled where Mark's head had lain. The desk was cluttered. Mark could never keep his papers in order. Roger could never find anything among Mark's things, but to be fair, Mark could never have found anything among Roger's possessions either. Coiled on the desk, like a snake among the weeds, was Mark's scarf. Roger reached out and picked it up.

It slithered between his hands, a dangerous memory ready to wrap around his throat and drag him down into darkness. That scarf was like a rope that tied him to Mark. And part of Roger didn't want to be tied to Mark, but all the same, Roger looped the scarf around his neck and with it the invisible chain that was woven into its fabric.

It was there. Almost tucked beneath the pillow. Roger didn't realize what it was at first. It didn't seem deliberate it's placing there. It must have been thrown on the bed and then had the pillow tossed on top of it.

Roger crawled onto the bed and slowly withdrew the small, spiral-bound notebook from its hiding place.

For a moment, he thought that perhaps Mark had been keeping a diary.

_Wouldn't that have been nice?_ Roger chastised himself once he realized that what he held was a date book and not a diary. _What did you expect? A map as to where to find him? Did you really think it would be that easy?_

He flipped through the date book. It was filled with places Mark had to be to record things. Strange little notes accompanied the times and places: wide angle shots, fade ins, 67 frames before cut. It was all technical jargon that Roger didn't understand. When Mark had tried to explain such nonsense to him, Roger would instead compose tuneless melodies in his head, rather than listen.

The date book had filming sessions set up for as late as this month. So Mark hadn't just run off. He hadn't just left. He had every intention of coming back to this room, and going on with his rather pleasant life here in D.C. But for one reason or another, Mark had never made it back to this room.

As Roger went to close the book again something slid out.

It was an envelope addressed to him. Roger's fingers tingled as he opened the unsealed envelope. Maybe Mark had just never gotten around to sending it. Or maybe he'd been stopped from sending it.

Two folded pieces of paper slid out of the envelope Roger unfolded the first piece of paper. It was a check made out to him for two hundred dollars. Roger smoothed out the creases on the check. It was dated from a week after their fight on the phone when Roger had told Mark to go to hell and then hung up on him.

Roger felt a lump growing in his throat. He set the check aside and as slowly as his shaking hands would permit, unfolded the second sheet of paper.

_Roger,_

_Look I don't know exactly what to say to you. I know that you'd probably rather not hear from me right now. I know that you hate me for what you see as running away. But Roger, what I hope you understand is that I still care for you very much and that's why I have to send this to you. If you don't want it you can just rip it up and deny that you ever need my help. But what I've felt was always true about us was that we were not afraid to be week around each other. I've always been there to help you through your worst times and I knew that you would always do the same for me should I ever need you. I wish that I could come home. I hope that soon…_

He'd never finished the letter.

Tears were pouring down Roger's face like small tracks of napalm. All he wanted to remember was the things he hated about Mark. He wanted to feel all the hurt and the abandonment, the pain and the anger surging up inside of him and biting the back of his throat.

But he couldn't.

All he could think of was how much he missed Mark and wanted to know that he was okay. He would do anything to take back those words he had spoken to Mark. Roger gently refolded the check and the letter, placed them in the date book and then returned the book to where he had found it.

He wasn't sure how long he sat on Mark's bed crying. Sobbing into his hands and trying to ignore the fact that now they smelled like his best friend.

It happened suddenly, the tightness in his chest making it difficult for him to breath, the way that his vision swam, and the ache in every one of his muscles. Roger tried to believe that it was because of his emotional pain that he felt this way, but he began to sense his consciousness slipping away and that made him sure that it wasn't just in his head. He didn't know what was going to happen first, if he was going to throw up or if he was going to pass out.

He needed help; he tried to stand up and to walk toward the door, but his legs were too week to carry him and he collapsed backward onto the bed. He didn't realize how violently he was shaking until he tried to reach for Mark's house phone, but it slipped from his fingers.

What was happening to him?

The tightness in his chest was growing worse. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears like an irregular drum beat. It was too fast, and then it would stop for a whole second before starting up again. Something was terribly wrong. Roger could feel darkness closing in all around him and he saw it in front of him: his own death.

Someone's hands were reaching out to him in the darkness and he stretched out his fingers to clasp theirs. The feeling of their hands was familiar.

"Mark." He rasped and he felt the other pair of hands tighten around his own in a gesture of confirmation.

The darkness was all around him now. Before him Mark was standing, pale and dressed in clothing that was torn to shreds.

"Neither of us belong here, Roger." Mark whispered.

"Where are we?"

"I don't know, but we can't stay here."

"Why not? Nothing hurts here." Roger replied.

"I know." Mark smiled feebly and as he did his lip split open and blood dripped from the cut.

"Mark, you're bleeding." Roger said, but even as the words were out of his mouth another cut opened at Mark's hairline.

"Go back!" Mark screamed. It was as if he was trying to protect Roger from seeing him like this.

"MARK!" But the darkness was fading to light and Mark's image was vanishing.

Two more cuts opened on Mark's forearms and the last thing he saw was Mark's eyes open in horror.

Roger sat up straight in Mark's bed. He'd fainted and been unconscious for nearly fifteen minutes. He was covered in cold sweat and his hands were trembling.

Roger reached into his pocket and pulled out an orange prescription bottle. Azidothymidine he read. He knew that by the anemic feeling he had right now and by the period of unconsciousness that he was growing resistant to the HIV drugs. He tapped one of the white capsules into his hand and rolled it around in his palm. Slowly he placed his thumb and first finger on either side of the dark blue band that split the pill in two.

"Here's to my salvation and my destruction." He breathed and swallowed the pill. "Some life."

He needed to find Mark before they both ran out of time.

He needed a drink.

* * *

The bar was the first one he found. He wasn't picky about location. He wanted to get drunk and he wanted to get drunk fast. And any bar would do for that as long as they had plenty of alcohol.

"What's cheep?" Roger asked as he sat down at the bar.

The bartender smiled knowingly and pulled a bottle of vodka out. He poured the first shot for Roger and then left the bottle as he went to help another customer.

Roger swallowed three shots in the time it took the bartender to help the other man who had walked in behind Roger. There was something familiar about the man. The way he stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, the way that his hand was splayed on the bar, and the way that he gave a wolfish glower after he swallowed his shot, made Roger certain that he knew the man.

That couldn't be possible. Who did he know in D.C.?

The man looked up and they studied each other. Roger blinked and on the inside of his eyelids he could see the way the man had once looked. The lines on his face were the same as they had been then, but the curves of his cheeks had once been softer and his eyes not so deeply set. His smile had been less vicious and more coy. He still had the mark from where he had once had an eyebrow piercing that had now closed over. He was not as muscular as he had once been, but still had the appearance of a bulldog.

As the man turned his head to the side, Roger could see the pale line of the scar on the right side of his jaw, made more prominent by the scruff of his beard that wouldn't grow around the place.

Roger had given him that scar one night when he had been high.

The man noticed Mark's gaze on the side of his face and he reached up to finger the scar. "So it is you, Roger, you bastard." The man laughed, even his laugh wasn't the same as it had been all those years ago, now it was haunted by the years and not carefree with youth.

"Jordan." Roger smiled and picked up the vodka bottle and moved down to the end of the bar to sit next to his one-time band mate. When Jordan had thrown Roger out of the band he'd beaten him up so badly that Roger had fractured his skull, but the years had made Roger forget all that.

They finished the bottle of vodka between them, Roger doing the lion's share of the drinking. "Why are you here?" Jordan asked.

"I'm looking for my best friend, Mark." Roger replied, for all the drinking he'd been doing he was still surprisingly coherent.

"What happened to him?"

"I don't know." Roger replied. "I think that he's been kidnapped or something. The police aren't doing anything. I have to find out."

"You're not just trying to forget about it?"

"What?!"

"Why else would you be here in the middle of the day?" Jordan asked leaning toward Roger. "Come on. I remember what you were like. You're trying to just forget about this, you don't want to have to deal with it. You always were one to run away."

"I…"

"I've got something better for that. All the liquor in the world won't make that pain go away. But I've got something that will."

Roger knew exactly what Jordan was talking about. Roger had been the one who introduced the band to smack. Roger had been the big user in the group, but the others had joined in on occasion. Roger had come to terms with the fact that Jordan had thrown him out of the band based on a personal vendetta and not, as he had claimed, because Roger's drug use was destroying the band.

"No." Roger was glad that he was still sober enough to say that. "I've been clean for too long, Jordan."

"You, clean?" Jordan laughed. "What else has changed, Roger? Where did the boy who sang for The Four Horsemen go?"

"He died." Roger replied, sullenly. "He died years ago. And the man you see now is only alive because of the man I'm here looking for. His name's Mark Cohen. I can't run away anymore. Jordan, I need help."

"Well, shit. Roger Davis has come to D.C. and is now asking me for help?" Jordan grinned and there was something in his eyes that Roger couldn't quite identify. "You really have changed. You'd never be able to find him if you hadn't run into me. Luckily, you fucked me up badly enough that I still run in circles that might have information about the boy."

Roger looked up at Jordan and saw not a man, but an animal. Roger had gotten out because he'd had Mark, but now, looking at Jordan he saw where he could've been.

He was so blessed to have had Mark, to have had someone to choose a better life for him when he hadn't been capable of making that decision for himself.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed! Just a side note, we put up a one-shot called _With Both Your Hands,_ which any fans of our work will love! Thanks for all your support guys!**


	11. Chapter 10: RagingShiftingWindsofChange

**From now on, Mat will be spelled with one T. It was like that to begin with, and then we both kind of forgot halfway through. So Mat has one t. :P**

**Also, don't forget to give our new one-short, _With Both Your Hands, _some love!!**

**For the record, Fanfiction isn't saving our page breaks.**

Chapter 10

Mark

"The Raging Shifting Winds of Change"

It wasn't a rainy night or a cold night, but D.C. was desolate just the same. Concrete and sky melded into a single shade of gray. The world was uncharacteristically quiet—at least, it was quiet _here. _

It was uncomfortably near to the place where Mark's camera had caught Jared and Mat. Mat walked those empty alleyways now; he made his way through the graffiti-lined vacancy, listening to the soft, lonely sound the wind made as it wound through the street corners. Every now and then, he heard the clatter of a soda can or the crinkling of wind-blown paper trash.

Then, he heard footsteps.

Immediately, he ducked into the nearest alley and clung to the shadows. But the bow-legged footfalls were familiar.

"Jordan," said Mat flatly.

His former bandmate casually sidestepped into the same alley. They looked over one another for a moment, even though both almost completely shrouded by darkness.

They weren't friends anymore. In fact, it was probable that they had never really been friends at all. But they had stayed together for a few months in New York after the band broke up, getting high and trying to salvage some of their music. Then they had moved to D.C. together and quickly fallen apart, each getting involved in different drug circles and abandoning music altogether.

The two still met every now and then, mostly to exchange contraband or information. Mat got the inkling that this meeting would be different, though.

"This better be good, Jordan. I shouldn't be out here."

Jordan chuckled softly. "All this time together, Mattie, and you don't seem to know me well at all."

"Cut the shit. Get to the point."

"I think we're overdue for some revenge."

Mat's heart sped up. He could feel it pounding inside of him, his body surging with adrenaline. "What are you talking about?" he asked, even though he knew.

"Does the name Roger Davis ring a bell?"

Mat thought of how Mark Cohen's blood had felt on his hands. "Yeah, it does. What are you getting at?"

The white of Jordan's teeth showed through the shadows as he smiled. "Fucker's in D.C."

"And you know this how?"

"Saw him today at a bar. Acted all buddy-buddy with him so that I could find out why he's here."

"And?"

Jordan produced a sheet of paper. Mat took it and tilted it into the moonlight. He wasn't surprised to see Mark's face on the familiar "missing" sign.

"He's looking for this guy," said Jordan. "Said that's his best friend. I want to kill him, Mat. Fucking Davis. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for fucking Davis. I want to put a bullet right in his pretty face. So here's what I figured. We tell him we know where his friend is. We take him someplace quiet, someplace no one knows about, and then we give him what he deserves. He deserves years and years of hell, for everything—"

"Jordan. What if I told you I have something better?"

A pause followed. Mat's sinister grin was ethereal in the patchy light. He held up the picture of Mark.

"What if I told you that I've got the kid?"

Confusion crossed Jordan's face. It was soon gone, though—it was replaced with understanding. Jordan could grasp the implications. He matched Mat's smile. The thirst for vengeance was alive in them both, and now the opportunity was presenting itself, everything unfolding perfectly.

"Why do you have him?"

"Little piece of shit stuck his nose where it didn't belong a few months ago. We're keeping him down in the smack hideout and it's been a pain in the ass.

"So here's _my _idea," continued Mat. "We say we've found Cohen and take Davis there. I shoot Cohen in front of his damn best friend—that'll be enough vengeance for me. Then you can have Davis. After that, we get out of here. I think the cops are starting to get onto me for the whole senator thing; I need out. Leaving behind Davis's dead body—not to mention his fucking friend—isn't a bad way to go out, is it?"

"Not at all," said Jordan quietly. "One week, then."

"One week."

They said nothing more. They went separate ways into the night.

--

--

Mark felt cold all over. His body trembled, even though he fought to keep it under control. It was hard, though, trying to exert so much control. Trying to fight the urge to vomit. Trying to keep a thread of clear thought even though his head was throbbing. Worst of all, though, was trying to tell himself that he needed to stick it out. He was so weak. God, why was he so weak?

"Please," Mark begged.

He was tied to the chair again. If he ever got out of here, the first thing he was going to do was burn the fucking chair.

The drug was so close; a small baggie of the pale brown powder hovered just inches away from Mark's face, held by Jared's hand.

"Starting to hurt, isn't it?" asked Jared. "Here's how it's going to work. You give me one piece of information, I give you one high."

Mark felt his heart lurch. This was it, his breaking point. Still, if he could work his way around a question, he could hold on a little bit longer. "Tell me what you want to know, and I'll tell you the truth. I swear to God I'll tell you the truth."

"Was your first story a lie?"

"Yes."

Mark answered without hesitation. The question had been blessedly vague; it bought him more time.

Jared smirked. "Ok. What did you do with the film after you found out we caught you?"

Mark's eyes hardened. "One piece of information, one high. That's the deal. Ask for more without keeping up your share and I'll start lying, and we'll go around in circles again."

Fury passed through Jared, starting with contortion in his face and gravitating down to a balled fist. The fist trembled. Mark steeled himself; he'd gone without a beating for so long, but now that he was healing, he guessed they were going to start again.

"I swear, Jared, you better not hit him again. If I have to go out and use our money to buy any more fucking medical supplies, I'm going to be pissed as hell. You wait until he's all healed. You're lucky I'm letting you go on with the heroin and the withdrawal."

Jared looked back at Nadia, annoyed now, but he refrained from hitting Mark. Mark didn't care either way. He had stopped caring whether or not Jared let the fist fly, had stopped caring whether or not Nadia intervened. All he wanted was to feel heroin rushing through his veins.

The needle wasn't inserted gently. Mark winced as it quickly pushed through his skin, Jared purposely missing the vein several times and stabbing again.

It finally happened, though, and it was bliss. He entered the high and rode through it, soaring beyond the confines of the chair and the room and the city and the world. It was an amazing, beautiful thing (and he said so out loud several times during the course of the high).

It was only much later, after the effects of the high had worn off and he was feeling mildly sick, that Mark contemplated the consequences.

What if he didn't have an answer for the next question?

Would he be strong enough to choose withdrawal over death?

In the dark of his closet that night, Mark cried. His tears were silent and hopeless. He cried because he knew deep down that he had been a terrible coward today—and the withdrawal wasn't even at its worst stages. Roger had gone through withdrawal horrible enough to make Mark's look like mild irritation. What if Mark didn't have it in him? What if, as the withdrawal got worse, he let information spill freely until his words cost him his life?

All of those long nights, holding a trembling, sweating, screaming Roger in his arms, Mark had been convinced that getting over withdrawal was all mental. In fact, he had secretly felt that Roger was just being weak; Roger was just running away, as always. But now Mark realized that there was nothing mental about it. When you were in withdrawal, your mind surrendered. Only your body and your emotions had any say. The only reason Roger had been able to get through it was Mark, there at his side. Mimi had gotten through it with Roger at her side.

Mark had no one at his side.

He curled tighter into himself, wishing it wasn't so cold here all the time, wishing for company. The thought of his friends sent pangs of regret and despair through him. He wanted to see Mimi's face lighting up the darkness of this room. He wanted to feel Collins's crushing arms around him, keeping him safe. Mark even wanted to see Maureen and Joanne holding hands and exchanging those soft, sweet kisses he'd always envied, inevitably picturing himself as the object of Maureen's affection. Hell, he even missed Benny.

Roger. God, he missed Roger. He wanted to laugh with Roger, starve with Roger, get drunk with Roger, scrounge for money with Roger, have those stupid best friend fights with Roger…he would even give anything to hear Musetta's Waltz.

Mark smiled a little through his tears. He wanted to hear Musetta's Waltz? He had officially hit rock bottom.

Nadia was a coward; she couldn't save herself, and she couldn't save Mark. Mark still cared for her, but he was disillusioned. Even her conversation and those desperate advances she made were hollow to him. He wanted to talk to someone who really cared about him and understood him; he just wanted to talk to a friend.

_You're in hell. There aren't any friends here. _

The tears lingered on Mark's face until his eyes finally closed and he drifted numbly into sleep.


	12. Chapter 11: For Once the Shadows

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

"For once the shadows"

Roger

It was a rough week for Roger. He realized that as he recalled his bar tab for the week.

Monday: Six gin and tonics

Tuesday: Seven jack and cokes (hold the coke)

Wednesday: Six manhattans

Thursday: Two beers (the alcohol had been getting to him)

Friday: Four White Russians (light on the cream)

But, every single time, he'd been alone. Jordan had said that as soon as he had some news he would meet Roger here at the bar, so Roger had waited every day and drank his way through enough liquor to shoot his liver straight to hell.

Today was Saturday, and it was six o'clock when Roger sat down at the bar. Sara had said that she could come with him if she wanted, but Roger wasn't going to drag anyone else into the D.C. underworld, except for himself. She knew where he was and who he was meeting in case something went terribly wrong, but Roger trusted Jordan to do this right.

"Back again?" The bartender asked as Roger sank down heavily in his, now customary, spot.

"Yeah. I'm just gonna have a nervous break down." Roger replied.

He put his head down on the bar. If Jordan didn't show up tonight, Roger didn't know what he was going to do. He was starting to wonder if he was wasting time sitting around when he should be looking for Mark.

"Here."

Roger looked up; a slightly effeminate looking drink was sitting in front of him. The glass was one of those thin glasses that he couldn't quite figure out how to hold, and inside the magenta liquid fizzed slightly.

"What is this?" he asked, pointing at the drink.

"A Nervous Breakdown." The bartender replied.

Roger raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"You asked for it." The bartender shrugged.

Roger laughed. "I suppose I did."

He sipped the drink as daintily as he could manage, but his own nerves made him gulp it down. He was about to order a slightly more manly drink when the door opened.

Roger nearly leapt off his stool as he tried to turn around and see who it was. A blonde-haired bulldog walked in with a rarely seen smile splitting his face like a scar.

"Jordan!" Roger whispered, not trusting his voice enough to speak any louder.

"Roger." Jordan embraced Roger. Roger realized that Jordan had never hugged him before.

"You found him?"

"I found him."

"Oh, thank God! Jordan, if I were drunk right now I could just kiss you."

"Haha, then let's get smashed."

"No, no, no, no, no." Roger replied. "Let's go get him."

"We can't. Look, don't ask questions. Don't dig for information. I can't tell you anything, just in case." Jordan motioned to the bartender then turned to Roger. "What was it that we used to drink back when we were famous?"

"We were never famous."

Jordan nodded coldly. "That's true. Two jacks with coke."

The bartender nodded.

"When can we go?" Roger asked. All his nervousness had been replaced with courage. He wanted to charge in and rescue Mark and just be done with all of this.

Jordan paid for their drinks and waited until the bartender was busy with some other customers before answering. "Tomorrow night, meet me here. Look, Roger, this isn't going to be safe. So please just follow my lead."

"You were the drummer. I was the lead singer. You know that I'm not good at that."

Roger laughed, but Jordan's eyes darkened. "Yeah… I was always the one following your lead."

They both sat in silence for a while. Roger's tongue was itching with all the questions he couldn't ask. He tapped his finger against his now empty glass and watched Jordan stare into the bubbles of his coke.

"Roger, do you remember the first time you got me high?"

Roger thought about it for a moment. He remembered shooting up with Jordan, but the very first occasion didn't stick out in his mind. "No… why?"

--

_Flashback_

--

"_Jordan! Jordan! Come here!" _

_You stumbled into our hotel room late that night. I wasn't sure how you kept going in those days. You never seemed to sleep, but between the alcohol and the sex and the drugs I guess you just never came down from one high or another._

_I shook my head at you. You were just high again. You were gonna tell me something completely ridiculous. I thought you would never be able to trump the last time you'd gotten high and told me that you had just seen tiny men crawling up the walls of our hotel room._

"_Jordan!"_

"_What, Roger?"_

"_Jordan. Jordan. Jordan." You were laughing by that point, nearly falling over._

"_Yes, Roger." If I ignored you, you just got obstinate, so it was better to just let you have your fun. _

"_Dude, Jordan. I can speak Persian."_

"_No, Roger. You can't speak Persian. You're on Persian."_

"_What are you smoking?!" You asked me, grabbing my shoulder. You were looking at me with these big, hollow eyes. I called Mat to come deal with you, but he told me to fuck off, that he was sleeping and that I should deal with our resident druggie all by myself._

"_Watch!" Then you started clumsily twirling your wrists in a sad mimic of a belly dancer and spat words at me that clearly weren't Persian, but were just a creation of the heroin._

"_Roger, that's not Persian."_

"_You're high." You said and flopped down on the floor._

_I patted the top of your head. "No. That would be you." _

_I went to go back to sleep, but you kept waking me up every ten minutes because you wanted to talk to me. _

"_Roger, what the fuck do you want?!"_

"_I want you to try this." You held the syringe out to me in your shaking hands. I remember specifically that you were laughing and it took me years to realize that your laugh sounded so malicious. "It's the best thing ever, Jordan. Trust me. Don't you trust me?"_

_At the time, I did. I trusted you implicitly. We were all so young and you seemed to have such great dreams. That's what I trusted, I trusted your hopes, but I shouldn't have trusted your insanity. All it took was those four little words: do you trust me? _

_I trusted you. So I took the syringe. And then, when I was throwing up in the bathtub you didn't stop laughing and speaking to me in "Persian". And when that shit had finally cleared my system I remember you smiling at me. "It gets better." _

"_I trust you." _

_I hadn't even realized that the words had come out of my mouth, I was so disoriented and in so much pain. _

_And I continued to trust you for months after that, letting you lead the band around like a puppy on a string until you ran it right into the ground. I trusted you each and every time you handed me that syringe._

--

--

Roger didn't say anything for a long time. "I'm sorry, Jordan."

"It's too late for that."

"It's never too late."

"Maybe it wasn't for you. But I've been on smack for years longer than you were. Don't apologize. It's just a part of my life. I can't change it. I'll see you here tomorrow night, ten o'clock. We'll go find that other boy who trusts you."

Jordan stood up, but Roger grabbed his arm. Roger considered all the things that he could say to Jordan, but he didn't say anything; he only smiled sadly and nodded goodbye.

He watched the reminder of all of his old mistakes walk out and he hoped that tomorrow he'd be looking at the reminder of all the good things in his life walk back in.


	13. Chapter 12: Eviction or Pay

Chapter 12

Mark

"Eviction or Pay"

The world will know the day you surrender.

At some point, you realize there's no way you can get out of prison alive. So you might as well fly out with the angel wings you'll receive once the trigger is pulled. You can die, and then you'll go up and away and see the world open beneath you as you work your way towards sunlight. It's the high of the century. It's when the needle pushes through your skin and never comes out.

Endless ecstasy. That's what Mark believed awaited him after death.

He still didn't want to die out here, in some decrepit corner of existence. But he had reached a breaking point, and he was ready for the high to come and never end. Better to die by a gunshot than by the slow, endless decay of his body. Mark knew the truth now: the odds would always be against him, and death would always be on the line. It was time to end this.

When Jared came with the heroin, Mark was ready—as ready as he could be, doused in sweat and drying blood as he was, shaking violently on the floor like a madman. His body was fragile. It was cracking, every inch of it pulsating with waves of shock. He was ready. He had fought long enough; surrender seemed beautiful.

* * *

Mark looked up into the desolation of Jared's contemptuous eyes and saw death burning in there, a new kind of feral drug.

"I'm ready," he said, fighting to control his own voice. "I'll tell you the truth."

Jared didn't smile, as Mark thought he would. The drug dealer only nodded curtly, his fingers toying with the small packet full of Mark's salvation. "I'm waiting," he said.

Mark could feel tears on his face. He reached up and wiped them away. His hand returned soaked with moisture; he had been crying for two days. It was subconscious at this point.

"It's gone," he said in a small voice.

Immediately, Mark felt everything inside of him vanish. The only emotion left was shame. He hung his head and begged forgiveness of the cold, concrete floor.

He didn't need to see Jared's rage and shock. It pervaded the air.

"It's what?" asked Jared, his words heavy with danger and confusion. "What do you mean, it's gone?_ WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN, IT'S GONE?!"_

"I mean just that: it's gone. I tore out the film and threw it in the dumpsters I passed—I think there were about two or three of them. No one has it. No chance. Please, Jared…"

Mark looked up to meet Jared's eyes now. Jared was shaking his head in disbelief, his face bright red with more fury than Mark had ever seen.

"You fucker…you goddamn little piece of _shit…_this whole time, we could've been gone this whole time…you _FUCKER!" _

Mark didn't feel the blow to his face. Or the next one. Or the next one. He was already dead, after all, and dead men don't feel. Nadia wasn't there to say anything—not that she could've stopped it this time. Mark had just spoken his death wish.

Finally, Mark reached up one of his trembling arms and caught Jared's wrist, stopping the hand before it could connect with his jaw. "Jared," he said hoarsely. "I gave you the truth. Give me the drug or kill me. Please. There's no point to this anymore."

Jared considered for a moment, then withdrew his hand. Mark withdrew his as well. Just as Mark relented, though, Jared's hand flew out again and slapped him once more across the face.

"I'd be happy to," said Jared, his expression the perfect picture of cruelty.

Mark guessed he wasn't talking about the drug.

Jared crossed the haphazard expanse of the hideout. He shoved aside some miscellaneous trash that coated one of the corners and pulled out a small box. There wasn't any dust on it—Jared took out this particular box very often.

He lifted the lid, and Mark expected to see the black glint of the gun emerge. But it never came.

Jared stared at the box, dumbfounded. Then, disgusted, he threw a few small things in Mark's directions, items that landed softly near Mark and skidded away. With a last hard look in Mark's direction, Jared stalked out, locking the door behind him.

Mark crawled over to the items Jared had thrown. Somehow, the fact that he wouldn't die today didn't register, didn't give him any relief.

The only thing that gave him relief was the fact that Jared had left him the needle and the heroin.

Grabbing it with the desperation of a starving man, Mark injected himself. He hated it with all of his capacity to hate. He loved it with a slave's love of freedom. Mostly, he needed it like he needed air.

_Fucking smack. _

Mark lay flat on his back and watched the ceiling begin to swim, letting the high give him a perfect glimpse of death.

* * *

Hours later, Mark didn't resist when Nadia came to tie him to the chair. The execution chair.

"This is wrong," she said, hesitating with the bonds. "You don't deserve to die."

"And yet here you are," said Mark bitterly. The effects of the high were wearing down; the numbness had given way to dull stores of anger.

_Yeah, it's fucking wrong. I didn't do anything wrong. I don't deserve to die, just like I didn't deserve to be your prisoner for all this time. _

_Fuck this…I don't want to die. _

Nadia didn't say anything. She reached out to tie his legs.

_Coward. You could let me go right now. _

"Wait."

She looked up at him, her eyes empty.

"Could I see my camera?"

She blinked, confused. "Your camera?"

"Yeah. When Jared gets back, he's going to kill me. My life centered on that camera. I want to hold it again."

Nadia shook her head. "I don't know where they put it."

"It's in the locked closet, the one behind the bed. Please, Nadia?"

She paused, but eventually she nodded. Leaving Mark unbound, she walked over to the closet, producing the key from her bra. The one key. The same key that opened the main door.

He approached slowly. On the way, he picked up a metal rod; there were several around the mattress, pieces that had once composed a makeshift bed frame. She probably noticed him coming towards her, but she made no move to stop him or encourage him. She simply continued unlocking the door.

When he reached her, he put a gentle hand on her arm. She turned to look at him, her gaze tear-filled. The tears no longer touched him. They were a hypocrite's tears.

"I'm sorry," said Mark softly.

He swung the rod with all of his might.

As he took the keys from her limp, unconscious fingers, Mark had one thought:

_I've become so selfish…God, I'm so selfish…_

The only things he grabbed on the way out were his camera and the packet of heroin that Jared had left with him earlier; there was enough left to keep him satisfied for a little while.

Then Mark opened the door to an unfamiliar corridor and stairway, and ran for his life.

* * *

Well, at least he caught a glimpse of sunlight.

The series of metal stairs led up to a trapdoor in an old abandoned building. By the looks of it, it had once been some kind of multi-floored office building, and he emerged in the empty lobby, where stripped concrete floors and walls were covered in graffiti and pieces of marking tape. Boards covered the windows, but some sunlight came creeping in around the edges. Mark tried not to look at them—they blinded him. Was it still daytime? He had no notion of time anymore.

The door had no lock; it was hard to open, fitting awkwardly onto bent hinges, but Mark was finally able to pull it open. A rush of light greeted him, so harsh and unwelcome that he raised his arm and looked away. He stumbled forward as his starved eyes adjusted.

But he should've run…because he stumbled right into hard, muscled arms that grabbed him and pinned him to the featureless concrete wall of the building. The sunlit world was in his vision for a moment; then, there was nothing but gray.

"Got somewhere to go, Cohen?" growled a familiar voice.

Mark's heart sank; he thought tears might spring to his eyes right then. Mat.

"I've been here for about an hour, my friend. Jared told me to see if his girlfriend would let that goddamned sweet little heart of hers get the better of her. Wanted to see if she'd betray us. Guess she did, huh?"

Mark fought with everything he had, but the awkward position he was in didn't help, and his right arm was twisted painfully behind his back. In a fair fight he would've been at a disadvantage—Mat was twice his size. Now, he was done for. He had already lost.

Mat twisted Mark's arm further, eliciting a cry of pain from the filmmaker. The camera, drugs, and key had already clattered to the ground. Mat didn't reach down to grab them. Instead, he used both his hands to slam Mark's head into the wall three times.

Once Mark was disoriented and dizzy with pain, he was forced back down to the hideout. He had no will to fight left in him as he was returned to his prison. The sight of it sickened him, of the boxes and the concrete and the closets and the mattress…the small back room with the putrid smelling toilet…the stench of weed…Nadia's body, still on the floor, something Mat hardly even acknowledged…

He hated this place, hated it so much, and yet he would die here. There was no question of it now.

Mat had an easy time getting Mark down into the chair, the thing Mark hated most of all.

_I've never had this much hate inside of me. _

Mark hung his head. The left lens of his glasses was shattered, and the frame was warped; that was the side of his head that had made contact with the wall. His vision was a hazy, shifting mess. Hopeless, Mark closed his sightless eyes.

Then a familiar click brought his head sharply upward again.

Mat's low voice was worse than any death sentence.

"Hope Jared didn't miss his gun…"


	14. Chapter 13: Your Eyes

Chapter Thirteen

"Your eyes"

Roger

He had the dream again.

It came every night now. He had come to count it as a constant companion. Before he could even close his eyes, he would see the familiar shadows. Fragile and trembling, two bloodied hands would reach out to him from the darkness. Two eyes loomed, brimming with terror. His own name echoed in his ears, spoken by a quavering voice, but whether as a prayer or a curse, he didn't know.

When he awoke today, he had a strange feeling of relief. It was very different from the normal sensations that accompanied the dream. He didn't sob, he didn't tremble, only breathed softly into the darkness.

He knew he'd had the dream for the last time.

* * *

Mimi always insisted on answering the phone and not letting it just go to voicemail. It was something that usually drove Roger crazy, but today he was praying she would be at the loft, because he didn't want to wait another second to hear her voice.

"Bueno." She cooed and he heard the click of her nails against the receiver. He closed his eyes, imagining her standing in the living room, probably wearing one of his t-shirts, so long that it hung down to her thighs. Her soft hair undone and rippling down over her shoulders.

"Hello?"

"Hello, love." He murmured softly, leaning against the glass wall of the phone booth. He was locked in a box for the entire world to see, but in that moment, there was no one else in the world, except for the two of them.

"Roger?" Her breath caught. He knew that sound; she didn't dare to hope that it was really him.

"Yes."

"Oh, honey." She would melt into the couch now, her legs tucked up under her and the phone cord wrapped around her hand.

"God, I miss you."

"I miss you, too." She paused. "Have you…"

"I hope so. I found Jordan, he says he knows where Mark is and he's going to take me… tonight."

"Oh Roger… that's… is that really safe?"

He straightened up. "Why wouldn't it be?"

She was silent for a long time. He could hear her breathing, so soft it was almost like the brush of a feather. "You told me about him… and Mark's told me about the state he found you in that night… I just don't know if you should trust him."

"Mimi! I have no other option! I have to find Mark. I have to trust anyone who can help me."

She was silent again. He knew she was chewing at her bottom lip. If he was there he would have seen her eyes filled with such vulnerable sweetness and love and would have fallen into those eyes and drowned. "Roger, please, be careful. I couldn't bear to lose you…"

_Too._

The word hung over the miles and miles that separated them, making the silence crackle on the line.

"I'm not going anywhere, before you know I'll be back in your arms, and I'll never go anywhere ever again."

She laughed softly. "I love you."

"I love you."

"Hang on. There're some people here who want to talk to you."

Roger switched the phone to his left ear.

"You find him?" Collins barked into the phone.

"Sort of." He could hear Collins's displeasure at this nebulous answer. "I'm supposed to go and get to see him tonight."

"How did you swing that?" Collins couldn't help but keep the anticipation out of his voice.

"Jordan—"

"—the same Jordan who beat you to shit?"

The corner of Roger's mouth twitched; why was it that was all anyone could remember about Jordan? The guy wasn't really all bad. Soon, everyone would be remembering him as the guy who had given them back Mark.

"Yes, that Jordan."

Collins was scowling "Roger, is that—"

"I don't have a choice! I don't care if it's safe or not. I can't walk away from this chance. I have to try."

"I know. But, don't let your love and your hope turn into rashness."

It was just like Collins to only have vague warnings and no real advice. Roger was beginning to regret that he'd called home if all everyone was going to do was tell him that this was foolish.

"Roger?" Maureen's sprightly voice pierced his ear.

"Hi, Maureen."

"Look, I know everyone's worried here, but I say do whatever feels right in your heart. I know you'll bring Marky back safe to us. Kay?"

He never thought that Maureen's cheerfulness would actually be a welcome thing.

"Roger?" It was Mimi again.

"Yes, honey."

"I love you. Come home."

"I will… we both will… I love you."

He placed the phone down and let his lifeline back to New York slide through his fingers. He stepped back out into the swirl of D.C.

A hand was on his shoulder and Roger spun, reaching toward the butterfly knife he had hidden in his pocket.

"Jordan." He smiled and put his hands back down next to his sides, but the other man didn't return the expression. His eyes stayed cold.

"Roger. I brought along some back-up." He jerked his head at a man standing a few feet away who Roger hadn't noticed before.

"Mat?" He hardly recognized the band's one-time member.

"Roger." Mat smiled, showing his canine teeth. He wrapped Roger into a very tight hug. "How have you been?"

"Um… fine…" Roger said when he could breathe again. He found Mat's friendliness even more disconcerting than Jordan's chilliness.

"Come on." Jordan snapped, having no desire to waste time on pleasantries. He led the way down a nearby alley.

The D.C. underworld was the first part of the city that made Roger feel at home. The twisting alleyways could have easily been transported directly from NYC. The passed out addicts and mugged frat boys curled into corners would have been just as a much a part of the ambiance there as they were here.

As they slid deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, Jordan became seemingly more and more anxious to arrive. Roger nearly had to jog in order to keep up with the other man's long strides.

None of them spoke, but that was fine with Roger. He was more than content to be alone with his thoughts. Images of Mark were filling his head. In moments, his best friend would again be safe in his arms. They would leave this city and go home. Everything would be right again. His anticipation was too complete for him to consider the thousands of questions that came with this rescue. He had no thoughts of the danger, or of Mark's own feelings on the subject of leaving D.C.

In Roger's mind there were no other options than the ones he thought were right.

"Here." Jordan stopped in front of a metal door. It was bent into awkward hinges, unobtrusive on the side of a completely abandoned building. It was so mundane that one would never have given it a second glance.

"Thank you." Roger breathed before tugging the door open and quickly sliding into the dark entry, pushing past Jordan and Matt as he did so.

Jordan indicated a trap door in the middle of the floor. It creaked when Roger yanked it open. He descended into a musty hall by means of a short ladder. At the end of the hall was a door.

Roger ran in ahead of Jordan and Mat. He opened the unlocked door.

He was there, seated in the half-light of a single bulb. His face was haunted, almost ghostly. He looked gaunt and unhealthy. There were cuts, new and old, over the parts of his skin that weren't covered by the tatters of his clothes. His hair was matted with blood. But he was alive.

"Mark." Roger cried, moving toward him.

Mark didn't say a word. He seemed to glare at Roger. What Roger could only identify as hatred flared in his eyes. Roger blinked, certain that he had been mistaken. "Mark?" He asked tentatively. But the look was still there, pure malice masking fear.

Mark shook his head stiffly, and that was when Roger heard it.

A gun cocked behind his back.

"Oh, Roger." Jordan cooed, leaning in so his lips were only an inch from Roger's ear. Roger could hear the smile in his voice. The barrel of the gun was stuck firmly in Roger's back, right between his shoulder blades. "It's good to know that people don't change. You're just as naïve as you always were."

Roger closed his eyes, unwilling to look at Mark again, for fear he would see something worse than hate: disappointment. "Jordan, please, don't do this." It was all he could think of to say.

"Don't do this?" Jordan mocked. "You think that I'm going to just let you walk away? I made that mistake once. I'm not about to again."

Mat rose up like an adder on Roger's other side, sliding around him and toward the chair where Mark was seated. "You murdered us, Roger, every last one of us. You took our lives and replaced it with sickness. You took our chance at a career and instead gave us hundred dollar gigs instead. You replaced our souls with smack." His hands slid down over Mark's shoulders, and Roger saw his best friend shiver at the contact. "I remember once," Mat continued, "how you decided that we should play a gig at this bar."

Roger flinched. He didn't want to remember all the mistakes he had made, but it was clear he was going to have to listen to a litany of his many sins.

"You never showed for that gig. You were passed out in your hotel room. I never thought that heroin could save a life, but it did that night. If you hadn't been unconscious, maybe you would've been there when I got jumped in that back alley and mugged. I'm sure you remember what they did to me." He lifted his hand. His thumb was a mangled stub that couldn't really pass for a digit.

Roger remembered too well. It had taken Mat months to learn to play the guitar again. He almost never had.

Mat lifted Mark's hand. "He has such delicate hands; almost like a woman's, wouldn't you say? I'm sure these hands have never…" Mat let his voice trail off and took Mark's small thumb between his fingers.

Mark didn't even twist away. He closed his eyes and bit down on his lip. Roger didn't understand what he was bracing it for.

Mat's hand twisted and Roger heard the crack of bone. Mark jerked, but didn't cry out. Roger lunged forward; Jordan's gun smacked him on the shoulder and he froze again. Mark's bones must have been as brittle as a bird's for them to break that easily.

"Please," Roger begged. "Don't hurt him."

Mat pulled a gun from his own pocket and pointed it at Roger while Jordan moved to stand next to Mark. Clearly it was Jordan's turn to torture Mark while Mat kept Roger from fighting back. Were they to take turns until they had exhausted the injuries Roger had done to them?

"You stabbed me once when you were high." Jordan snaked his way out from behind Roger. "Twice, actually." He laughed, fingering the scar on his cheek. He slipped a hand into Roger's pocket and pulled it back out, holding Roger's knife. "With this, in fact. Here I was thinking that you would have bought a new one, having dirtied the first with your friend's blood… but I guess not. You probably don't even remember doing it." Jordan spun the knife in his hand, opening it as he did. "You drove this blade three inches into my thigh. It took ten stitches. Three inches is about how long? There?" He held the knife under Roger's nose, indicating a place on the blade that was about _five_ inches away from the tip.

Mark opened his eyes, silently pleading with Roger for help. Roger barely trusted himself enough to speak. "Please…"

Jordan smiled and slowly drove the knife into Mark's thigh, inch by inch. Mark's good hand tightened around the arm of his chair and his breath came in uneven gasps. Jordan twisted the knife further to accentuate his words. "This is for the drugs you got me hooked on. This is for the life you left me with. This is for your pretty mouth that told me all those lies. This is for…"

"STOP!" Roger shrieked and his own voice covered the sound of Mark's whimpers. "Please. Just kill me if you have to, but please stop it."

"Oh we will. But first, you have to watch him die. I want you to watch the light leave his eyes. I want you to see death. I want you to understand it. And then… maybe… we'll be kind enough to make your death as quick." Jordan sneered. Leaving the knife in Mark's leg, he pulled his gun out again, and pointed it at Roger

_I've spent years learning what death is. _Roger thought. _If only you knew._

Mat stepped toward Mark. The gun leveled at Mark's temple. Mark didn't flinch. His soul was pouring through his eyes. He was so helpless. Roger understood that Mark couldn't even save his own life. There was no fight left in him. Everything was in Roger's hands.

Maybe Mat and Jordan were right. Maybe Roger had taken their lives away. He knew that he had taken his own. He saw Mat's finger move toward the trigger of his gun. Maybe if he could stop Mat, he could save one life.

Roger leapt forward, placing himself between the black barrel of the gun and Mark. He heard a scream and was certain that Mat had pulled the trigger, but he felt no pain. He turned and saw Jordan face down on the ground, the back of his head gushing blood.

Standing over him was a girl. She was so thin that her arms didn't even seem strong enough to hold up the metal rod she grasped, let alone to have swung it with such force to shatter bone. "Please, Mat, don't hurt him." Her voice shook.

"Nadia." Roger heard the name spoken from either side of him. Mat spat the name at her, and behind him Mark had spoken for the first time, whispering with such tenderness.

"Haven't you done enough? You've had your revenge. You know the film is gone. Please, just let them go." The left side of her face was black with bruises and dried blood.

It all took no more than a second, but Roger saw every bit of it happen.

Mat turned the gun away from Mark. His face was ice.

The gun barked.

The girl fell, blood splattering the wall behind her.

Roger reached down and grabbed Jordan's gun.

Mat was still facing the girl on the floor.

The gun in Roger's hands flashed, but he never heard the roar.

Mat staggered backwards and stared down at the hole in his stomach. He raised his gun and pointed it at Roger, but before he could move his finger, Roger had emptied the remaining bullets into Mat's chest.

Roger saw the life leave his eyes as he sank to the floor.

Now, at least their accusations had been true. Roger really had killed him.

"Mark." He dropped the gun and turned back to his best friend. "Oh, Mark." He fell to his knees. The blood coating the floor soaked into his pants. His hands shook as he undid the knots that bound Mark's wrists.

He lifted Mark from the chair. Mark had never had much weight to lose, but now he was so thin it took no effort from Roger to carry him.

Sirens were screaming in the distance and Roger didn't stop running until he was a dozen alleys away. He ran until his legs gave out and he dropped to the ground in the middle of a puddle of slimy rainwater.

"Mark. Mark. Mark." Roger repeated his name over and over, holding Mark's broken body close to him, as one would hold a child.

Mark looked up at him. "Roger?" His voice cracked as he tried to smile. "I knew you would come."

Roger brushed the hair from Mark's forehead. As he did he looked into Mark's eyes, but he saw nothing. Those eyes portrayed no emotion, only a deep, intense hunger that consumed him. Mark's eyes were blank, dead.

Roger was afraid that he'd been too late.


	15. Chapter 14: Rebound

Chapter 14

Mark

"Rebound"

Mark's stream of consciousness blinked on and off. One snapshot was alive and ablaze with pain—the knife being driven, twisted into his leg. Then it disappeared. Darkness. The next thing he was aware of was Roger lowering him onto the soaked concrete; he looked up, saw Roger's face, whispered a few words, and drifted off again.

There was nothing where Mark was. No memory. No voices. No reality. It was just dark and cold, and he thought for sure he was dead.

The last thing he had seen was Roger's face. That, in Mark's mind, was a good way to die.

--

"Mr. Davis, please, if you'd just tell us what happened, where he's been…"

_Sirens._

"What the hell else do you need to know? He was fucking stabbed, I'd think that was pretty fucking _obvious _seeing as the fucking _knife _was still in his fucking _leg—"_

_Sirens._

"Mr. Davis, we are _trying _to help. There's no need to use that language."

_More sirens…god, why are sirens so loud…_

"_Are you fucking kidding me?! _I just saw my best friend tortured, saw two people die, and almost got killed myself! _I'm going to say whatever I fucking want and you people can just humor me!" _

"…ok…torture…that's a start, Mr. Davis, could you elaborate please?"

"Elaborate…what? He got stabbed!"

"Yes, Mr. Davis, we know. What else happened? His thumb is broken. There are bruises and abrasions all over his body, some healing, some relatively new. He's dehydrated and obviously very underfed."

"Oh yeah. They did that too. Shit…shit, he's so hurt, what's going to happen to him…"

"He'll be fine, Mr. Davis…we just need a bit more information. You know, so that we can take care of him."

"Ok. Ok, fine. I'm sorry, really I am, I'm just so worried…I didn't mean to be an asshole, it's just…"

"I know, Mr. Davis. I know."

_Shut. Up. I have the migraine from hell and all you two can do is keep talking and talking and talking, and on top of that I have the fucking SIRENS wailing in my ears! Roger. Shut up. Lady, shut up—I don't even know who the hell you are. Everyone just leave me alone. _

"Wait, Katharine! Did you say the name was Mark Cohen?"

Another _voice?! Don't you people have anything to do besides talk? Like heal me, maybe? _

"Yes, Mark Cohen. That's the name Mr. Davis here gave us."

"The same Mark Cohen who's been missing for months? Damn…yeah, that's him!"

"Yes. That's him. Now make him better."

Roger's voice.

_I love you, Roger._

--

Mark was in a hospital bed.

He'd always hated hospitals. Too many people died in hospitals; the hellholes always smelled of sickness and sterilized decay. He hated the stupid, strange-smelling naked robes that people had to wear, with their dizzying pastel patterns of little green cubes or little blue diamonds or little pink hearts. He hated the little lit clip that they put on your finger.

Unfortunately, one couldn't survive without passing through this haven of death.

His world was coming into focus. Mark opened his bleary eyes and noticed the hated robe and clip on his body. He could only concentrate for a moment, however, before the pain kicked in, and he groaned.

A weight shifted on the bed in response to the noise. Mark looked to the right and saw the fuzzy shape of Roger, his head lying in his arms.

"Where are my glasses?" muttered Mark.

Roger awoke like a start and immediately started rambling incoherently.

"Mark! Oh my god, Mark…you're awake! You've been asleep for like, two days, and I thought, wow, he's really hurt…then I thought no, he's just being a lazy ass…though I guess it's not the time for humor now, is it? I'm so sorry, Mark. I'm sorry it took me so long to get my ass down here and save you. Though I can't really take full credit for that. But I guess we'll get to that later. They put a ton of anesthesia in your leg, I know the rest of you must feel like shit but your leg should be pretty numb, but don't worry, you're not paralyzed. I don't think a stab wound can paralyze. I'm sorry you had to go to a hospital; I know you hate them. They offered to show me the blood tests and stuff, said there were some things I might want to see…but I refused, said I didn't want to see any of it no matter how much they insisted…I just wanted to know you'd be ok and not have them stuff my head with all that medical crap, just like every time I go to an appointment for the AIDS and it's way over my head—"

"Roger. Glasses."

"Oh. Right. They're pretty beat up, though."

Mark felt the lenses descend onto his face and was immediately graced with sight. He saw Roger's features solidify; there were bloodshot eyes, desperate for sleep, and a crooked, apologetic smile.

Mark felt his throat seize up with emotion. He couldn't believe it was Roger. He had dreamed for so long of having his best friend beside him, and now Roger was really here.

More than anything, Mark wanted to reach up and crush Roger in an embrace. Words couldn't describe how thankful he was. Unfortunately, his limbs probably weren't too keen on that idea. Instead, he spoke, his voice cracking as tears climbed to his eyes.

"Roger," said Mark. "How the _hell _did you afford a plane ticket over here?"

Roger laughed and looked down—he knew what Mark was trying to say. "I have no idea, man," he replied softly.

"How are _you, _Rog? Did they do anything to you?'

"Did who do what? Oh, me? No, I'm fine; no one did anything to me. Though apparently I was in a 'state of shock'. Damn straight. But I'm better now."

"Good. That's good."

Roger hesitated. "Mark…" he said. "Everything that happened back there…that was my fault. I was such an idiot for putting my trust in people who stabbed me in the back before. I just wanted to find you so bad…I'm really sorry, Mark. I'm sorry I did this to you."

"But hey," replied Mark hoarsely, offering a small smile. "You never would've found me otherwise. You never would've saved me."

"But…your leg, and your finger, and the fact that it took me so long…that I didn't even think to call your work until two months in…it was just so stupid of me, so damn stupid. And then there's that conversation we had before you got kidnapped, the last things we said to each other. God, I thought you hated me. I wouldn't have blamed you. I acted like a selfish, inconsiderate—"

"Roger." Mark reached out and touched his bandaged hand to Roger's arm, stopping the songwriter in mid-apology. "I don't want to talk about any of that, at least not now. I'm done with that. Anything I resented or was angry about disappeared months ago. I'm just so glad you're here. Honestly, I know it sounds stupid, but I thought I might not see you or anyone again, and…"

"I know. I felt the same way."

"I'm just so glad you're here, Rog."

"And I'm glad you're not dead."

Mark laughed out loud. "Yeah, yeah…I'm kind of happy about that part myself."

Roger took a deep breath. His eyes were moist and his face pale, but he hadn't cried. He looked out the hospital window, past the sterilized white light and the smell of bandages. A small smile took all of the sadness from his face. "So, I've got three pieces of good news and two pieces of bad news. Which do you want first?"

"I don't care. Good news. Whatever."

"Good news number one: your company is paying for all of your medical expenses."

Mark breathed a sigh of relief, letting his head sink back into his cheap, white, paid-for pillow. "Now THAT is a relief. I was afraid to ask."

"Good news number two: from the bit of discussion I'm hearing, the police and the news are in on this and you're going to receive some sort of government compensation."

"That's good. But no news. Damn, I don't want to be on the news."

"Good news number three: The police found Jordan at the scene and arrested him. They also staked out the place and caught some guy named Jared Anderson. They're under arrest, Mark. It's justice."

Mark stared blindly out the window through the mutilated lenses of his glasses. He wasn't sure if he cared or not. Justice was the farthest thing from his mind. It _was _good, though, to know that those thugs wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else.

"That's good news, Roger. I'm glad. What about Mat?"

"I killed Mat."

Mark froze. The world narrowed in on Roger's face, the face that Mark suddenly realized had seen _more _death, had _caused _death. Those glazed eyes and that small smile hid someone who had pulled the trigger and killed someone else.

"You…what?"

Roger looked Mark straight on. Mark felt his doubts quell when he saw no hint of repentance. "Self-defense, Mark. Not murder. Never murder. It was the only way to survive. That's what we do, we survive."

Mark nodded. He felt his body returned to normal. "Yeah. Right. Um…what about Nadia?"

A moment of confusion crossed Roger's face…then sadness. "Is that a Hispanic girl? One who looked kind of like Mimi?"

"Yeah, that's her! Did they arrest her too? I guess she bears some guilt, but really not as much as Jared or anything, and if they just give her a chance she could really turn her life around—"

"Mark? She's dead. We wouldn't have been able to get out without her."

Regret. That was all Mark knew at that moment. It seemed good lives were as temporary and volatile as wind or flame, gone in a breath and burdened with too much sorrow.

He wouldn't cry for her. Not now, anyway.

"Was that part of the bad news?" he asked.

"No…I actually hadn't thought about that. I didn't know you cared about her. I'm sorry, Mark."

He _had _cared about her. He had never loved her, like his desperate mind had led him to believe briefly, and he hated that she could have helped him and didn't. But that wasn't worth seeing her die. She hadn't deserved to die.

"It's ok. She was just a good person in a bad situation. I just…I don't know. Whatever. Give me the bad news and get it over with."

"Ok…well, first, they need you to testify at the trials. You'll have to be a witness for Jared's and Jordan's prosecutions."

Mark didn't say anything. He knew there was no way to get out of it—his testimony might not be necessary to get Jared and Jordan behind bars, since they had done that well enough with their drug trafficking schemes, but he _would _be needed to clinch any kidnapping charges. And he knew, deep inside, that Jared had to pay for what he had done.

_He took away months of my life. He deserves punishment for that. _

Mark nodded distantly. "Ok. What's the other bad news?"

Roger's mouth twitched. "Um…your family's coming."

"_ARE YOU. FUCKING. SERIOUS?!" _Mark shot up part way in bed before falling back with a moan. "Roger! How could you…how could you let them?! No, god, _no, _not my family, with mom's obsessive fussing and Cindy's brats with their _constant _high pitched yelling…_Uncle Mark Uncle Mark Uncle Fucking Mark_…and there's no way in _hell _they are letting my dad in here…Roger!!"

Despite himself, Roger laughed. "Stop whining, it won't be that bad. The doctors thought they should be here. And don't worry, your dad's not coming. They should be here in a couple of days."

Mark sighed and they fell silent.

Mark watched the pillow. He watched the light. There wasn't much to do in a hospital bed—just look around. Soon, he was watching Roger and taking in for the first time how haggard Roger looked. The songwriter kept almost falling into the bed, obviously expending a huge amount of effort to keep himself upright.

"Roger," asked Mark gently. "When was the last time you took your AZT?"

"Don't worry about that Mark, that has nothing to do with—"

"When was it, Roger?"

The songwriter sighed, avoiding eye contact. "Before I left."

"Holy shit…" Mark looked up as the door clicked open and a young girl, a volunteer, walked in with fresh linens. "Excuse me? Will you please get a nurse to look after my friend? He needs medication. He'll explain the situation to her."

To his surprise, Roger didn't protest. The girl left, and still no sign of dissent. On the contrary, Roger even looked grateful.

_He must really feel like shit, _thought Mark. If Roger wasn't complaining, Roger wasn't himself.

A few moments later, the first words emerged from Roger's mouth. "Well, you better get some rest."

"Yeah. You'd think I'd want to get up and do something after being out cold for two days, but my muscles feel like jello and I'm still all out of it. I don't even want to think of getting up."

Roger got that familiar sparkle in his gaunt expression. "Your muscles are like that all the time, Mark. Finally catching on?"

Mark narrowed his eyes. "I'd hit you, but I can't move."

Roger laughed. Mark loved that sound. God, he hadn't realized how much he missed the sound of laughter. Roger's laughter.

He smiled, content to be here, happy to be alive. Laughter was worth living for.

Heels approached in the hallway, clicking against the linoleum. If that wasn't a nurse for Roger, the nurse was sure to be coming soon.

Roger got up from his seat by the bedside and stretched luxuriously.

"Yeah, show off your functioning limbs," grumbled Mark.

The laughter came again.

"Oh, before I go, Mark…" Roger reached down by the bedside. Mark didn't have the energy to bend down and see what he was reaching, but soon he saw it in Roger's extended hand: his camera.

It felt alien. Mark's hands were bandaged, so he fumbled with it uncomfortably. This camera had been his life. In a way, it was still his life. Just seeing it made that dying artistic spark inside of him come alive. He wanted to film something, to capture reality in all of its beauty and degradation.

But beyond it was the smiling face of his best friend. Mark had come to realize that his life, the core of it, was completely detached from filmmaking.

"So now you can go back to work," said Roger. "I'm proud of you. I'm sorry I never told you that. You've got a great company here with a lot of cool people, and they'll sure be happy to have you back. That girl Sara—who is just begging for you to make a move, by the way—told me that they'd hold the position. A lot of opportunities there, Mark. So make magic with that camera of yours. I'm ready to stop being selfish and tying you down with all of my crap. I want you to succeed. It would make me really happy to see that."

Mark fumbled a bit more with the camera before laying it clumsily on the bedside table. "It means a lot for you to say that, Rog."

Roger only nodded in response.

The door opened again. The nurse, a motherly, middle-aged woman, opened it only a crack as she knocked ceremoniously. "Mr. Davis? I understand that you have AIDS, and I'd really like to see you back on your medication. Will you come with me?"

Roger cast one last glance at Mark and gave his best friend a lazy, casual salute. "Yeah, I'm coming," he said.

The songwriter turned his back and began walking out the door.

"Wait, Roger."

Roger turned and slipped his head back into the room. "Yeah, Mark?"

Mark smiled. "I'm not going back to work. When I get out of here, take me home, Rog. Take me to New York."

The smile that lit Roger's face made all of Mark's pain dissipate.

--

Mark didn't sleep. He pretended to, though. He pretended to so that Dr. Wen—an oriental, young, very professional-looking man—would come in unhindered.

The doctor was looking over the charts when Mark spoke, scaring the man half to death.

"Confidentiality, right?"

The charts almost slipped from Dr. Wen's hands. The man collected himself, however, and laid them to the side immediately. "What was that, Mr. Cohen?"

"If I don't want you to tell my family or friends something, you won't."

"That's right. Unless you sign a release, I am not obligated to tell anyone anything."

"I understand you ran a full battery of tests on me."

"Yes sir, we did."

"So you must have found the drugs."

The doctor appeared unmoved, but his intense, dark eyes regarded Mark unblinkingly. "Yes. We are aware of the heroin in your system and a possibility of addiction."

"I am addicted."

"All right. That helps us."

Mark took a deep breath. "That is one of the things I don't want you revealing to anyone, doctor. Promise me you won't tell anyone. Especially not Roger."

"Mr. Cohen, it is our policy not to."

"Promise me as a person, not as some brainless function of your work."

If Dr. Wen was offended, he showed no indication of it. "Well, as I said, it _is _policy, so of course I would never—"

"Just promise!"

Mark held the man's gaze. He needed this promise.

"Of course, Mr. Cohen," said Dr. Wen after a brief pause. "I give you my word as a doctor and as a good man that your heroin addiction and all other information in your files will remain completely confidential unless you expressly ask me to release it."

"Thank you, doctor."

The doctor was soon gone. The gnawing desire for heroin, however, didn't leave. It lingered. It intensified the pain and overrode the anesthesia.

Mark knew then, as he lay in his sweat-soaked hospital bed staring up at the ceiling, that getting out of the hospital and back to New York would only be the beginning.


	16. Chapter 15: Truth Like a Blazing Fire

Chapter Fifteen

"Truth like a blazing fire"

Roger

By the time Roger lay down to go to sleep, his head was spinning. Ten thousand thoughts were vying for his attention. The vodka he'd drank at the welcome home party, coupled with the warmth of Mimi's body lying next to him on the bed, was making him drowsy.

As much as he wanted to, he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep. He knew that if Collins knew he was lying awake like this, he would give him another lecture about letting Mark deal with this on his own.

"What are you doing?" Collins had asked him when he'd finally managed to corner Roger during the surprise party they had thrown to celebrate Mark's homecoming.

"What do you mean?" Roger had responded defensively.

"I know what you're trying to do, Roger. You can't protect him forever. He's going to have to deal with this, and he's going to have to start talking about it. You can't possibly keep him from that."

"He doesn't have to deal with it today." He had growled in response.

Mimi rolled over and nuzzled against his side. He stroked her hair gently, being careful not to wake her.

He knew that Collins was right; he couldn't possibly protect Mark from having to talk about what had happened to him. Tonight alone had resulted in dozens of questions that Roger had carefully deflected so that Mark wouldn't have to answer.

"I've missed you so much!" Maureen had said to Mark after dinner. "Roger told us almost nothing when he called to tell us you were coming home. What happened to you?"

Roger had quickly distracted Maureen by refilling her glass with vodka and began asking her questions about her most recent obsession: saving the dolphins.

Each time Mark had been asked a question about what had happened to him, Roger saw a shadow pass across his eyes. There was a darkness behind those eyes that Roger never wanted to see, but that he knew he would see a thousand more times in the coming days.

Perhaps having a surprise party hadn't been such a good idea. After all, Mark was still adjusting to normal life, and they had given him life on steroids. He couldn't imagine how Mark would have felt, going from a place where no one loved him and where he was tortured, to where he was smothered with love and affection. Roger blamed himself for not having realized that it would certainly shock his system.

When he'd handed Mark a glass of vodka, he'd intentionally kept their hands pressed together a moment longer than was needed. He had felt the tremor in Mark's hands. When he had finally let go, he had watched Mark struggle to raise the shot to his lips without spilling any of it.

Mark, who had never been much of a drinker, had downed shots with surprising speed, until his hands no longer trembled, because he had been too drunk to remember any of what had happened to him.

Roger had spent the entire night watching Mark out of the corner of his eye. He could hardly bear to step out of the room for a second when he'd gone to grab another bottle of vodka.

Roger stared up at the ceiling, trying to peer through the darkness. Mark hadn't been the only one keeping secrets that night. Everyone had tiptoed around him, vapid expressions on their faces, smiles that never reached their eyes. He had several times caught Collins staring at a spot on the wall or the floor, unaware of everyone around him. Mimi had rested her head in her hands as if exhausted, and he'd caught her more than once rubbing the back of her neck as if it pained her. Joanne and Maureen had been overly helpful the entire night, refusing to let anyone else do any of the work. They hadn't quarreled once, even with Maureen hanging all over Mark.

He stood up and wandered into the front room of the loft. Joanne and Maureen had done such an impeccable job of cleaning up that you would never have known that there had been a party there.

He stood outside Mark's room for a long time, trying not to walk in. He knew that it was wrong and that surely Mark would love to have privacy for the first night in months, but he couldn't help himself. He inched the door open just far enough for him to peek in. Mark was seemingly asleep, probably passed out from the massive amounts of vodka he'd drank.

"I'm sorry." Mark had whispered to him, as Roger had helped him up the stairs. Walking with a cane didn't make climbing stairs a very feasible thing.

"For what?" Roger had asked him, confused.

"I really don't want to be a bother to you."

Roger had noticed the crimson flush of embarrassment in Mark's cheeks. "You're not a bother, Mark. Look, I owe you for all the times you watched out for me. Think of this as payback."

"You don't owe me for any of that." Roger thought Mark's voice had been overly hostile, but when he had repeated the statement all of the aggression was gone. "You don't owe me for anything."

Roger closed the door. Here in the darkness, time stood still. It could well have been any other night before all of this had happened. He would give anything for this to have been just another night.

He would be asleep, instead of standing in the living room, with his heart pounding in his chest. Mark would be sleeping peacefully, instead of passed out from drinking.

There was something in Mark's eyes that Roger could almost recognize, something he had seen before, but couldn't place. That look that he had seen back in D.C. had yet to fade away. It still cropped up on occasion, and Roger was desperate to figure out what it was.

Roger sank down on the couch, holding his head in his hands. Something was stabbing into his thigh, he tried to ignore it and concentrate on his thoughts, but he couldn't. Finally, he stood up and found a small piece of plastic sticking out from between the cushions, he was about to toss it on the ground when he realized what it was.

He wouldn't have recognized it if he hadn't seen hundreds of them in the past several days.

It was a hospital bracelet.

He was certain that Mark hadn't been wearing one when they had entered the loft earlier. So who could it have belonged to? He turned the bracelet over in his hands.

_Thomas Collins_

_Bellevue Hospital_

It was dated from exactly two weeks ago.

The door opened behind him and Roger spun around.

Mark was standing in the doorway staring at him with empty eyes. His pupils seemed to take up his entire eyes, making them black voids.

"You okay?" Roger asked, rising slowly.

Mark blinked at him, it was clear that he was still buzzed, if not still entirely drunk. "Fine." He snapped. "I'm fine."

Roger knew he was lying. After all the years they'd spent together he could read Mark fairly well, but even a complete stranger would have been able to tell that Mark wasn't fine. He was shaking so badly that he could hardly stand up. He was pale and his skin was covered in fine beads of sweat.

"Mark?" Roger took another step toward him.

"Don't touch me!" Mark snapped and backed away. He held up his shaking hands to keep Roger at bay.

"Mark… please…" Roger said and took another step toward him.

Mark backed into the bathroom and slammed the door. Roger tried the knob, but it was locked.

Moments later he heard Mark throwing up.

Roger stood in the hallway until Mark finally opened the door again. "Mark…"

But that was the only thing Roger managed to say before Mark fainted into his arms. He lifted Mark as carefully as he could, the man was still dangerously thin, and his skin was icy cold.

When he placed Mark back down on his bed, the other man seemed to stir. He whispered something that Roger couldn't quite make out, it sounded like he said "I need help."

Roger sat there for hours watching as Mark slept fitfully, muttering as he tossed and turned.

He realized that the hospital bracelet was still clutched in his fist.

How many people weren't telling him the truth?


	17. Ch16:There Is No Future There Is No Past

**To our readers: Yes, this IS the last chapter of _Walk Beside Me. _Thank you so much for your reviews! **

**If you want to keep up with this storyline, make sure you have us on author alert; a short bridge sequel will soon be posted, followed by a full-length sequel_. _**

**__****Hopefully, everyone read and reviewed our latest one-shot****, _Touching a Heart!_**

**Thanks again for supporting this story. :D**

--

Chapter 16

Mark

"There Is No Future, There Is No Past"

--

_Flashback_

--

_Why had he left Roger home alone? _

_It had been a mistake. A failure. But Mark needed to get out…another bruise to his face, another sleepless night…and so much abandonment. How could Benny and Collins have left him alone? Maureen was gone too, but he'd _sent _her away. She wasn't safe around Roger. Benny and Collins though…both bigger than Roger. Both significantly bigger than Mark. And yet here Mark was, alone, running home along the rain-slick streets, desperately hoping that Roger hadn't done anything to himself in forty-five minutes. _

_They'd needed food. Mark would have called Benny, now that Collins was at MIT, to bring some, but thinking of either of them left the bitter taste of betrayal in Mark's mouth. So he was on his own. _

_Mark ran up the stairs at a dead sprint to get to the loft. He'd taken the key with him, and fumbled around in his pocket to find it as he ran. He had it ready when he reached his floor…running towards his door…_

_Only to find it open. _

_Mark felt himself go cold. _

_He gave the loft one futile sweep. Everything, if possible, was worse than he'd left it. Furniture was overturned. Trashcans were emptied, their contents strewn out all over the floor, little stenches rising. Clothes were turned inside out and thrown haphazardly over everything. _

_Roger had been looking for something…and Mark knew what it was. _

_It was time to run again. _

_Mark threw the food he'd bought onto the cluttered mess of a counter and left, pausing only to force some breath into his burning lungs. Then, it was back down the stairs and onto the streets. _

_He knew the alleyway. It wasn't far from their complex, just a few blocks. Roger always went to the same place and to the same dealer to buy smack. And if Roger got the drug somehow, the withdrawal process would have to start all over. Mark was reasonably sure he'd taken all their money with him (a terrible idea, since he was no stranger to muggings), but Roger might have had some hidden._

_He was almost there. He saw the corner up ahead, a black indent between nameless building walls. The rain was pouring; the concrete was smooth and wet, and Mark's glasses were foggy. He was running into people, pushing them aside, and thankfully didn't get more than a curse word thrown his way. _

_As he reached the corner, though, Mark heard more than curse words. _

"_Please." _

"_You're wasting my time, kid. And I don't like to have my time wasted." _

"_I can pay…I can pay later, I swear, I swear to God…please…I'll come up with it somehow. I just need it _now. _I'm gonna die without it. Do you understand that? I'm going to fucking die!!" _

_The voice that replied was pure steel. _

"_And I don't give the slightest shit whether you live or die. Now get the fuck out of my face." _

"_Please! You don't understand, I'm dying—"_

"_Three seconds, Davis. One." _

"_Please!" _

"_Two." _

"_Fuck, man, I've always paid—"_

_There was no three. Mark heard the sound of damp skin impacting skin, and the thud of a body falling to the ground. Then a dark figure emerged from the alley and strode away down the street, disappearing into a sheet of rainfall. _

_Mark ran around the corner. He found Roger there, a dark, soaked figure amid the dumpsters and graffiti. A crimson stream of blood coated the songwriter's face and was washing away in the rain. _

_In a second, Mark was at Roger's side. He sank to the ground, feeling the dirty, cold water that had formed puddles on the ground soak through to his bones. Roger was in nothing but a torn tank top and plaid pants; Mark stripped off his coat and laid it across the songwriter's shoulders. Then he put his arms around Roger and pulled his best friend close, saying nothing. _

_Roger was crying. Mark could hear it, the shallow breaths, the terrified moans. The tears became sobs. The sobs became convulsions. Soon, Mark felt like someone was like pounding a sledgehammer against his chest. Roger was rocking back and forth with so much force, trembling as though from electric shock, beating his fists against Mark. Roger's screams were inhuman, no more than raspy groans torn from his throat. _

_It hurt. It was hurting them both. They were drenched and slipping away, but Mark refused to move. _

"_Roger," he whispered. "Roger, it's me. Stay with me, Rog. It's Mark. Stay with me, ok? Look at me. Stay with me." _

_It took a few moments and a few more repetitions, but the convulsing slowed almost to a stop. Roger even pulled away slightly and established eye contact. Those eyes were red and desperate; Mark saw madness in them, madness and immeasurable sorrow. _

"_Mark," said Roger, his voice quavering. "Just look at me, I'm a wreck, a screw-up, I'm so weak…I tried to fight it, I tried, but no one was there to stop me and I just felt like I was dying…oh god Mark, I'm so weak. If he'd given it to me, I would've have taken it. I would've done it again!" _

"_It's ok, Rog. It's ok. You just slipped a little. And I won't leave you next time—I won't leave you again. It's ok." _

_Mark felt tight, shaking fists close on his rain-plastered shirt. "Stay with me here, Mark." _

"_I'm right here, Roger. I'm right beside you." _

_They stayed there, huddled in the alley. The hours passed and so did the rain. Around one in the morning, they wandered back through humid air and drying streets, Roger leaning on Mark's thin shoulders. _

_They got home. Somehow, side by side, they got home._

--

The process of leaving D.C. hadn't played out exactly as Mark expected.

Mark and Roger had spent about a week more in D.C., expertly avoiding the millions of news channels that wanted to interview Mark. He authorized no visitors to his hospital room besides Roger and some people from his work. The family visit couldn't be avoided, but it actually wasn't as bad as Mark expected. It came and went, and a little bit of love actually surfaced through Mark's years of resentment. A few more days saw him discharged with a bandaged leg and hand that would be functioning perfectly soon.

Roger handled the politics. Mark stayed at home and "rested" (aka, avoided people like the plague) while Roger negotiated the retrieval of the government compensation with the police and government representatives. In the end, it was decided that it would come in a series of checks once Mark was back in New York. The company and the local government would take care of selling Mark's apartment and getting the plane tickets.

It was all very nice of them.

Mark didn't care.

He just wanted to get the hell out. He counted the days to the plane ride.

When it came, however, and he left D.C. behind, Mark wasn't even thinking of New York or of seeing his friends. He wasn't thinking of Roger.

He spent the airborne hours wondering how he was going to cover up his heroin addiction once he got home.

--

Mark didn't know how he would feel upon arrival. Walking the familiar streets seemed alien; the door to the loft seemed like a distant dream. Light sources were strange and unwelcome.

All of his emotions swelled and conflicted. He'd suddenly been transported to a past world. His friends' faces were displayed in front of him like two-dimensional figures on a movie screen, and the buzzing surround sound of their voices filtered and faded out.

He tried to convince himself that it would pass. It had to. Things would be normal again.

Except for one thing—the normal Mark Cohen who had existed before the kidnapping hadn't been addicted to heroin.

He wandered in on his welcome back party. The loft had been cheaply decorated. His eyes latched onto streamers of pale blue and red ribbon, following their twirling progression back to the walls. He didn't watch his friends. The sounds he heard were car horns and rising voices drifting in through the open windows; he didn't listen to his friends. He looked for anything to distract him from the insane rush of madness and darkness. The world was spinning, spiraling like a carnival ride. Heroin was at the center of it all. It marred their faces, the distant touch of their arms, the sight of the loft.

Roger helped Mark skirt around questions. Mark assumed that Roger saw it all as avoidance or the truth or fear of the past or some obscure shit like that. He just prayed that Roger wouldn't recognize the symptoms and wouldn't look close enough to see the collapsed veins.

And, in the midst of it all, Mark downed vodka. One shot after another. He got so drunk that he couldn't feel. It wasn't giddy, crazy drunk though. It was the still, silent, terrifying drunk.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. People left. Maureen and Joanne cleaned. Mark shut himself away and felt himself die.

At some point, he threw up. He was surprised he made it to the toilet. There wasn't much in him; he threw up some thin, cloudy, liquid mess, probably the vodka. He'd never been a heavy drinker and this was a blow to his system. Mixed with the withdrawal, it was hell.

The vomiting left Mark hollow. He was an empty, pale bag of skin when he collapsed into Roger's arms.

_I need heroin. _

Mark said those words out loud. He would never remember it, and Roger didn't hear it correctly, but he said them.

He sank into the black world that had become his life.

--

Mark woke up the next afternoon with a massive hangover, the migraine from hell, and the overwhelming need for a high. No one was home—there was a note from Roger on the door that Mark didn't bother to read.

After stumbling into the kitchen and pulling the curtains over the white sunlight entering through the window, Mark went to the counter. Next to the telephone, there was a paper plate. On that paper plate, Mark and Roger had thrown scraps of paper with phone numbers on them—their makeshift version of a Rolodex.

He looked at every number. By the time he reached the bottom of the pile, his fingers were shaking beyond his control. When he was done awkwardly shifting the papers and still hadn't found what he needed, Mark threw the plate with all of his strength…and went on to do the same to every item on the counter.

What followed next was a frenzy. Overturned furniture. Pockets turned inside out. Trashcans emptied.

_The fucking number has to be here somewhere. He couldn't have gotten rid of it. It has to be here! The dealer's number has to be here!_

But it was no use. Mark let out a cry of frustration and sank down by the couch, landing on a pile greasy, used paper plates and crumpled napkins that he had dumped out of the trash. There wasn't any strength in him. The couch supported all of his weight, standing stoically in place as the filmmaker collapsed and shook against it.

Mark had just thrown a shoe at the door—a half-hearted, lazy throw made as he gasped in pain—when the door opened.

And there was Roger.

Where he had been, Mark would never know.

But in that moment, their eyes locked.

"God, Mark…" breathed Roger, his gaze following the path of destruction. "Oh my god…"

"I'm sorry, Roger," mumbled Mark, speaking to the ground. "I'll clean it up. I just…I don't know…"

Before he knew it, Roger was on the ground beside him. His arms were in Roger's hands. His face was inches away from Roger's.

"Mark. What is wrong with you? God, you have to tell me. This is…this is like me…oh my _god…_"

"Just leave me alone, Rog…"

"_Tell me what the hell is wrong with you!!" _

There was the familiar face of his best friend. The clear eyes, focused and covered in a film of tears. The rough skin that hadn't been shaved in weeks. A thin mouth, always ready to laugh and smile.

Mark saw Roger and broke down.

"I need a fix," he said.

"_I need a fix!" _

Mark could feel Roger's horror. The songwriter's arms grew weak; his eyes grew wide. A gasp escaped him—just a breath.

Mark wished he could apologize, but he couldn't. He could only look at Roger pleadingly, could only grope for Roger's arms to feel them supporting him again. When the contact was reestablished, Mark fell into Roger's embrace and let convulsions seize him.

All he heard through the breakdown of his body were a few words:

"We'll get through this, Mark. I'm here. I won't leave you; you never left me. It's ok, Mark. It's ok. By your side, just like always, man. It's ok."

Fingers stroked Mark's sweat-soaked hair.

"It's ok. I'm right here. We'll get through this, like we always do."

Strange, how words can penetrate even madness. Mark heard those words and knew, somewhere deep inside, that they were true.

Knowing that Roger was beside him meant that he would—he could—survive.

Who knows how long they stayed like that, crouched on the floor, broken together like the fallen pair they were. The world passed by and they were small and tragic and insignificant. So much darkness still awaited them. Heroin cast its shadow of addiction; AIDS cast its shadow of death. The months to come would be a new kind of torture. But for now, they were here, and they were together.

Mark's body finally stopped shaking when he fell asleep in Roger's arms.

--

_Don't walk behind me, I may not lead. _

_Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow. _

_Walk beside me and be my friend. _

_The End. _


End file.
